Belong to Them

Wrenched from the insides, pulled without any meaning, just words then. Anyone can have ‘just words.’ Dug out from silent, sad shells and exposed to worldly light, see the beauty that the poet never saw in their creations themselves. Buried deep beneath sorrow and joy, tucked into the corners and crevices, hiding in the delicate arch of the foot, the pulse of the wrist, pressed into hips flowing (so fluid), begging to be freed from rib cages and lungs with a quick breath. The words beg to be released from you, the shell, you are the planter, the incubator, the creator, the words grow in you and they are nothing without you. You craft them, you always (unwillingly) have, and they come across on paper in this powerful, staccato rhythm and they are yours alone and you continue carving them into your skin and your brain and whatever else there is. (Can you call it carving? Maybe those words were always imprinted on you, on your heart and lungs, down to your bones, and you are the archaeologist uncovering them.) They belong to you, you belong to them.