Listen: there’s this ache in
my rib cage that feels like
absence—like someone is
biting at me to step
Out of my skin. Let this
Be a catechism.
Let this be a holy
teaching of un-divine.
Let this be—a question
Without answer to make
you burn with that Ugly
fear of al-ways sticking
out. Stick-ing, not stand-ing:
Like the way you shrivel
into nothing, no voice
or protest as defense.
Here is the unholy
teaching: Why never speak?
The truth is this this this:
- - - - - -
(Translated for the blithe:
Six lines of paused breathing
Pause-pause-pause-pause-pause-pause.)
Never speak because there
is a shaking in your
dull voice when you talk
no matter what. Like your
skin is trying to run
far, far away from you.
Even though your mind is
a gift—not everyone
knows how to interpret
its melancholy or
fervor. My mind is not
A gift but you get the
point, don’t you. It’s like that
feeling you get when all
your bones beg to sink so
shallow into the earth
to do things equally
as decomposing as
Pressing lips together
Your own, just yours alone,
to keep the words back though
they’re afraid anyway
to spill and fill the still.
Still, like stagnant waters
still. Like shutting up still
because they remind you
Always, no one ever
cares. Or listens. Or looks,
either, because you are
Not There. Invisible
they would say. If they said
anything at all, though
they don’t. Fine. That’s fine. Tell
yourself it’s fine. Otherwise
otherness is a fault
But I don’t think it is.