On Writing

On Writing

It’s the fins on my naked body while I writhe.
It’s the air in my lungs and the sky in my eyes.
It’s the sero-mela-tonin in my brain,
and in my heart, the eternal infestation.

Words pump against the flesh that binds me,
and bleed into the gray ocean that consumes me,
into plastic-litter sand, and wrinkling reefs.

In these waters of hazy grayness,
nothing remains for long – carry on, carry on –
only the abysmal depths that haunt me
and the dazzling lights that taunt me.

Perpetual shame and glory nibbles beneath my skin,
and bleeds from heart-bursting sickness and disease,
from piercing harpoons and predator-teeth.

My blood whispers to me, let me free, let me free.

and bleeds in its reflection like dying stars
and rain-washed innocence.
I find comfort in this vulnerability.

When Sun melts over the horizon,
and Waves sway, a lulling motion,
my seething blood flows, and dyes a gray-white page with size 11 ariel.

My need for writing is simple, really:
it is the red, contorting creature within me
pleading to be let free.
So I rip open its flesh-cage,
and let it tumble from my guts and
burrow into the page.

Because here in the water, I can breathe,
And here between the words, I am free.