you didn’t know that I write?
well:
I had forgotten too, to tell you the truth
writing
for me
is an untangling of sorts
a loosening of stubborn knots
and a stroking of tender muscles
I write when sentences won’t do the trick
when uncompleted thoughts and abandoned fragments
say what a carefully constructed paragraph cannot
I write when I am weary
gingerly gripped by despair
turning a painful thought over in my mind
poking a bruise until I know exactly why and how it hurts
I write when my pain is mixed with joy
and when my optimism is studded with flashes of melancholy
I write to scream
I write to be silent
I write when I am alone
I don’t, when I am not
I treasure a late night spent in the company of
a ticking clock and my clacking keys
a soft, burning throbbing behind my eyes
and a gentle aching in my heart
I write to get it all out
but to keep it, while I do
writing
for me
is an undressing
it is peeling off a damp wetsuit
and standing
naked
on the beach
