The world can fit into one small human seam.
Just as long as your anchor is heavier than you.
The boat might spin and tip, but only acting as a pair of compasses,
charting perfect circles.
Over and over, with such integrity, purity, and reliability.
Do you even see my lips moving?
Because they do not move with accuracy, but rather erratic
Yes, maybe rubbish trickles out.
But, in these ruins of me,
there you might find your broken molds with my name
written inside your incessant circles.
Yet still the circles only rapture the circles, leaving you with,
Am I right or am I wrong?
The question which begs for empty killing.
And the answer which begs for empty killing.
Or could it be killing for the empty that has gone unfulfilled?
There, blood is unknown, unfounded, unnamed.
Bringing forth bewilderment and severe punishment.
Everything within me wants to take my saw,
filled with furiously hungry serrations,
and satiate it with the chains that bind you to the pond’s floor.
But, I am not called to that task.
My task is to draw stories in and outside of the circles,
where my name use to be.
Where shyness and shame
covered my being.
Little by little,
stepping out of the dresses, undoing the ties, unweaving the sweaters;
stepping through the thresholds, leaving the bedrooms, pushing back the sheets
and embracing what once was disguised and guarded.
In front of you.