on friday afternoon i tell myself

"today is your day. you can make things right."

 

until i find myself a slave to the

bright white glow of a blank electronic canvas with a flashing line telling me where to make my fingers raw.

 

i type meaningless words,

odes and love songs

about a boy and a girl who love each other

even though i know nothing of the sort.

 

i fall into an entrancing loop of animal videos and sad songs playing through the red button website and make myself cry when i come across the military homecoming videos.

 

i return to the word document and tell myself to write-

write because the words cannot be spoken

the words cannot be heard.

type the words

until the arthritis freezes your joints and your brain vessels clot.

write for liberation, for an "i love you", for a chance of living-

 

but i type nothing.

 

an audiobook plays rupi kaur's 'milk and honey'.

her soft voice is entrancing, captivating, and justifies my pain.

 

i envy the ones who own it already and yearn for a tangible book-

to turn the pages,

soft, delicate, cream paper,

turn them one by one

in between my fingers.

 

i dream of my own 'milk and honey.'

a paperback book with my words tattooed on paper,

maybe a sketch or two every few pages,

a title and an end.

 

but alas,

i do not write simple seconds of love,

or paragraphs of the non-loving moments that occur.

i write about pain and torture of the living,

and that is why i have become like them.

 

the moments of injustice,

the daily tears that carve canyons into perfectly made up faces,

the times that a man put his hands on a lover in unloving ways,

the reasons why people become suicidal.

 

i write about pain and torture of the living,

and that is why i have become like them.

 

i have become a slave to the

bright white glow of a blank electronic canvas with a flashing line telling me where to make my fingers raw.