Not to be dramatic, but…
Nature tells us that becoming is an ugly process, whether we choose to listen or not.
Movement is for everyone, even if instagram doesn’t make it look that way.
They’re perched on my tongue, all these words.
Sometimes, they writhe.
“Let us go!” they plead.
And in other moments,
My vocabulary seems all too content to freeze along my taste buds
Concealed from the world.
I look at you all;
I want to say something,
You see the words all tied up inside me, and wonder, enquire, concern.
But some stories are better left unsaid.
Some narratives are too twisted to be unknotted.
I wish I could weave you a tapestry of my experience.
The threads would carry you through the early abuse, self loathing.
They’d explain my father’s abandonment& my mother’s enabling.
And why my brain is enflamed with potential dialogue unable to be realized.
The sound and the fury of unspoken words never muted.
But I don’t have the needle.
I lack the thread.
So I’ll remain entangled in twisted verse until I can free myself instead.