She told me she writes her deepest secrets, then burns them in an open pit where the fire can breathe.
She's been sifting through a decade of journals trying to prove there is one poem worth reading out loud.
She has a 'what if' tree outside and hooks by the door. She spends all day out there, making ornaments out of everything that never happened. 'One day,' she says, 'I'll cut the tree down and burn that too.'
I say, 'If you show me yours, I'll show you mine,' and raise the side of my shorts up my thigh,
all my what if's are scars that healed over time, I place her hand over 12 cuts and tell her the story of my father's hands.
We are scared to speak when the truth is too revealing, spending most of our lives concealing anything that will 'out' us to each other, secret spies living undercover, covert operational-relationships compromised from the beginning, doomed to end in bloodshed
She's tired of living like that, so I say: tell me your story, I am listening, what happens if you decide to soften under the command of a pen?
Widdle your heart into an army meant to protect the Great Wall- shape their expressions to remind everyone you are serious about boundaries and believe no is as important to live by as yes, make them hold pencils in place of semi-automatic weapons so there is no chance of accidental death, no cheap shots - refuse to be quiet about where you have been we are all from a sense of raw open heart ache,
tell me how you survived because I'm almost certain we all know what it feels like to exchange our voices for submission and spend our lives feeling like we need something to drown out the inner silence,
but it still vibrates, doesn't it?
I can feel it just sitting next to you all the words that grapple for truth your tongue is drowning in them your mouth is ready your heart is open but honesty is heavy and comes with the possibility of learning to value every experience
because here we are, broken, bursting with story waiting with open ears.