sometimes i grope for words

and laugh at myself afterwards. 

(because i’m supposed to be a writer, aren’t i?)

other times, i sit on the chipping green bench

and pretend to stare at the birds

while i tap

tap tap

inside my head and live a different life. 

i let words and colors drench me

(chrysanthemum, holly, periwinkle)

as i suffocate under the rules. 

because i am not uniform—

i am the beads that fall from a loose necklace,

a swarm of thoughts and starry nights,

the weeds that grow under your house and up 

your walls. 

how do you tell someone 

that you dream because you want to escape?

because this little, broken world is not enough,

and we’ve already begun to burn.