to write

My teeth sit in my mouth like sharp
rocks. I think of an unfortunate person,
in all reality, a vegetable, tumbling their
way down and slitting their veins open with
one of the edges. When I bite down on a stick of
celery, I can hear their bones breaking.

Nobody
ever really
stops talking.

I feel immobile.
If my hands are clenching,
then I'm outside, raking up
the leaves. I don't care if it's
spring. I'll do it anyways. I sat
on the dock and stared out at the bay.
If I had my way, it'd storm constantly
and a lover would always have their hand
in my hair. I would get to stare at the innocence
of him, bare; and standing there would be a gratitude. Mum says I've got an attitude.

I just don't like this
snobby world. I don't like
much of myself. Sometimes I can
feel the greed, selfishness, settling
in my gut. It's those days I want to dissect
myself, put me under a microscope, and say: "learn
from my stupidities."

I want someone to say something.
Not just something, but a great something.
I want my creations to make you create something;
or make you want to create something; or make you
feel as though a hand is holding yours.

When I say I've got no mouth,
and no money pouch, and my fists
are pissed but can't find a way of release,
I would hope you could see something from me, in me.