I carried my poetry like a bullet in the gut:
Protecting it with hands of flesh;
Hands of Kevlar
As it bled out.
As it seeped between my fingers;
It didn't want to be protected.
My poetry is different from me.
It wanted to break all the bones
Turn my skin inside out
Pool on the ground
And show you your own face.
It wanted to scream
When I could only whisper.
It was my breath!
This is an elegy to my poetry
This is an elegy to my lack of poetry.
This is the dying wish
The fire that burns the skin,
Or warms the face
This is the way the skin goes cold
How the body doesn't work the way it should anymore
This is the shit and the vomit
Clearing itself from my awareness.
This is the ashes:
And the way we rise up out of them.