i don’t want to write anymore. i’m too emotional, but somehow not emotional enough. my words are flat. chest flat. starved belly flat. i stare in a mirror. morning sun behind me, i stare.
words are feathers fighting boulders now. weightless and useless. there was no effort, before. i never had to create before. words were in me. i trace angular curves across naked hips & collar bones searching for empty, spaces, holes. but i am full, of anger of desire of flesh of love of bones. there is no room for words. there are no words. just flesh and bones that look sharp enough to cut. i press fingers against protruding angles; cut me. but, harmless. my words are like bones. harmless edges. dulled.
i’m writing when i have nothing to say. lacking purpose. what is anything without purpose? intentions. desire. words, but i do have bones like hot knives cutting butter. i do have bones that move like words used to. slowly. slowly. loss of control. how can it hurt? it’s meant to move this way.
i tell my eyes (reflected, mirror), words have no weight to control, but my body can move. i move. i tell my heart, if words look sharp press yourself against them. find them harmless. the feeling of bone to bone begins to ache at least, i say. my fingers ache. i tell myself, where words were, bones are now. and i am no feather and i am not without weight and words are nothing. i don’t want to write anymore.