8/5/17 11:21am

Thursday afternoon hangs sticky in my head
sticky in the way that I’m stuck on something that you said.
In your way you asked me, why I over-edit, why I correct.
You asked me, “where’s the grit? Where’s the real shit?”

Where’s the words I used to peel off of my lips in strips,
shouting my truths at the top of my lungs?
Where’s the rawness and the vulgar?
Did it fade as I got older?
Walking on eggshells to assure I don’t push anyone away.
Please like me, god I need you to like me.
But it’s not honest,
it’s not the sonnets that are spinning in my throat.
I can’t coat the words in sugar, can’t recite a pretty quote.

Trying to crack open like flowers through the pavement,
and remember what it was that I had to say in the first place.
“You use too many words. Don’t overthink it so much.”
Let it spill out slip out drip out
of your bitten fingertips until you find yourself,
the one you’ve forgotten.

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