you told me you don’t like to write because you’d rather forget
the bad things, and you’ll remember the good anyway
so what’s the point?

this is the point:
to say, i bled for you
i was awake all night, i wrote this for you, don’t you see?
i love you so much that it hurts;
i love you so much that i’d rather remember
that i fought for this: every word
every comma
was a struggle. hemingway was wrong.
there is everything to writing, or maybe i just don’t bleed as easily.

the words get tangled in my veins; they get lost
on the journey from heart to fingertips.
my body is a dictionary, but catching language is
like trying to pin down water.

i wonder if this is what hell feels like: to know you have something beautiful
trapped inside your body
but you cannot let it out.

i keep trying, but i still don’t know how to say
i created something beautiful out of every scar,
out of every heartbeat and heartbreak and heartache; here it is,
wrapped in skin and
tied with my best capillaries.

i suffered through it all just to find a way to tell you. don’t you see?

god took adam’s rib and made eve; i
tore out my heart
and wrote this for you.