Sometimes I feel like despite the sky sleeping in my mouth, I’ve not yet swallowed enough language to be loud enough, to make you listen.
Sometimes I hear the ocean crying beneath my skin and I want you, to comfort her,
but you always tell me
to just wear longer sleeves.
I can not cover my bones any longer. I can not pretend I do not dream of dancing barefoot across open meadows, I can not hide the thorns that have grown behind the backs of my teeth, I am sure, they have already cut you.
You told me in whispers down the edges of my shoulders how my silence, makes no sense to you. I told you if you stopped asking me for answers, you would hear them.
I am not this mouthful of silver you are trying to make sense of,
I am not my chapped hands and tired muscles I am not my empty promises I am not the poems that I write I am not the words you listen to, I am not,
I am fistfuls of sunlight patching up my mothers scars, I am a body teaching itself to heal again. I am an ocean who’s waves have forgotten they have voices, I am sky, I am moonbeams....
I am not the poems that I write,
I am not the words that I speak;
I am the words you listen to,
but never hear.