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
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
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.