Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

Something Deeper

I used to be a writer.

I remember how they would

hound me.

wolven voices ringing out,

the lovely parts of their lips glint

"aren't you writing now?"

I must have laughed, I must have

I revealed my hands,

and told them,

"No. I'm not.

I'm bleeding

and there is a

difference."

I should have

abandon them,

and those words -

too full of holes

to be whole.

But when I did,

I found that -

I missed them

terribly.

The initial ache of them

was a candle too close to flesh

it became soft and red.

They told me

with dry lips

that if I didn't

move them

they would

move me.

I asked myself,

when?

When was it

that I became

afraid

of lines?

of emptiness?

As if the nothingness

was something to be

feared.

It is.

Even now,

I can affirm -

when they ask me

to identify the essence

of fear

I will always respond with,

"Nothing."