this could be a song, but when i open
my mouth, words fall out like
baby teeth. when i was small
i made music out of every inch of my
body. first i squirmed to the
rhythm that was born with me,
then i made
my own rhythm, sporadic,
spontaneous, building to something
bigger, and then
forgotten. this could be a song, but i’ve
forgotten how to be
the harmony. sometimes
i walk as if i’m navigating
an ode i wrote to myself
in reverse, learning myself
from the words to
the stories they built. this is a song
with no music. i used to whisper it
under my breath, so low it took years
before you thought to listen.
i began unwriting when i knew
you could hear the hum but were
tuning it out. this could be
a song, but when i open
my heart, no beats come out;
when i open my arms,
i reach for ghosts;
when i open my mouth, words
hover in air but they
are too heavy to soar
as notes do. they sink down
and pin my feet to the ground
like tiny anchors.
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Photo: Ricardo Gomez Angel via Unsplash
