I can breathe out all of it
and nobody has to know, or everybody can know
my shifting and tampering and judging
spread out, carbon on paper, font serif or sans-serif
writing makes me hopeful
it is what i fill my half-empty glasses with.
writing concentrates into a spool of string
to weave out the sad, the beautiful moments that my bones work so hard to remember.
I'll play with the ocean that's in my mind
the sandbox, and the wind I thought smelled like wildgrass and cookies meshed together
because only i'll notice.
I write because the words will talk back
when i'm lonely, and will acknowledge my existence in sometimes-
rhythmic, sometimes-legato, free-bird ways
I'll smile, I'll forget--
stuck in a rapture of creativity or numbness or whatever really
it dissipates the quietness inside me
because I write to make everything okay.