I don’t write
like other people write.

Things get in my head.

Stories.
Words.
Themes.

Adjectives, nouns, verbs—
things without names,
things that don’t know
they’re things yet.

They gather.

They crowd each other,
push against the inside of me,
looking for someplace to go,

until there are so many
I can’t take it anymore.

And then I write.

It reminds me of being a kid,
of cutting.

That terrible relief.

Like taking a razor
to something already aching
and finally giving it
a way out.

Only now
I cut open the page.

And I bleed into it.

Fear.
Insecurity.
Worry.
Love.
Anger.
Every thought I couldn’t quiet,
every word I couldn’t say.

I let them run
until they soak through,
until they permeate
the pulp and fiber of the paper,

until I can’t tell anymore
where the writing ends

and I begin.