Dreamwalkers

All of these things that were never here

are here still.

Voices creep through the air vents,

but the words don’t really sound like words;

A whisper cuts through them all:

Don’t bring tomorrow, it says.

Don’t bring tomorrow.

I know what’s going to happen,

and I walk on the shards of glass

anyway.

Ask me what poem the next night will bring

and my stomach twists in fear.

The only times I drown

are when I wade into the river

myself.

Writing Myself Back Together

These lips aren’t lips,

they are made of words

just as these hands aren’t hands.

It was all sand,

with a pair of lungs in the center.

Who knew a pair of lungs

could save itself?

The Songstress

            The first time you say something is always the hardest. Every time after that the impact is a little less. Press your body against the truth, and know that once it has passed through your lips you can no longer control it.

            It feels like pyramids will fall at the sound of these words; they won’t, I promise. They will crush everyone in the room around you, but people are resilient; they will pop back into place and go on ignoring the damage if you let them. You will learn that the sentences that float through your brain are less powerful than you ever could have imagined. They call you and seduce you, but no one else can even hear them.

            Whistle, my love. Whistle until the horses come back. Your conjuring of the past makes everyone uncomfortable; seep into it anyways. Let it fill you and move you and change the way you write. There’s nothing for us here, so let us build something new. We must start by knocking down walls and imagining the house we will live in someday.