a poem
it leaked out of me
like the pus of a
wound that had been
picked at too often.
so i kneaded the
sticky mess between
my thumb and index
finger greedily.
that’s when i learned
what trauma could
do to the body; how
it will devour you.
how it seeps into
your art to steal
your talent just to
dilute your spotlight.
and this is how the
game began, with
my vocal orifice
draining my arteries.
what else was i to do
but comply when it
was begging for me
to talk about it all?
so when i was wet
and sticky from my
hollowed youth, i
emptied into a pen.
i wrote myself into
a verse for everyone
to eulogize when i
reach my final decay.
