There are so many words that have left my body,
that don’t graze the inside of my skin anymore.
I write knowing that the word and the moment
will never be the same. That words cause destruction
when they leave.
I can feel timid as it inches along
the back of my teeth and down between my lips.
Some people say
that words are never found in the sway of the hips,
but instead in crossed arms, head bowed
like a dog eared page. Some people say
words are solitary. But I say
words are found (and loved) when they spark off of the book
and taste like metal when you say them.
Poems scrape you and make you fall.
You lose those words only to get back up and say them
and love them even more.
To love poetry is to love the the violent exit,
to know that even though everything looks quiet
it was never silent in the first place.
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