Cicatrix

Cicatrix

It starts as an itch,

an idea in bits,

scratched

till the skin splits

and ink meets its match

in the bleeding that drips

a pattern onto the page

which sticks,

holding the nib

with firming grip

as the blood begins to buffer

the cut

clotting thick

till the meaning fits

and settles itself

as a scar,

starting at scarlet

to a shimmering blush

when the sparks rush

to the surface

with one sensitive touch,

and when the sensations

created

are all out of love,

its silver surface stays

as a statement

to be heard

for what happens

when the heart tries

to stop the writer’s words.

Lexeme to Liberty

Lexeme to Liberty

The distant glow of landing lights

has always meant safety

for sneaky bedtime reading

and from terrifying bedtime monsters

turning playful dreams into crime scenes

before I had learnt enough words.

A book in my hand

titles ‘Do Not Disturb’:

I am too busy

escaping my reality

with my runaway imagination

to shape a sentence with sonancy,

learning new words

to replace those that brand me

in my attempt to make something fiction.

For every time

my words have been stripped from me

and I have forgotten

the way my tongue and teeth and lips

make a sound,

I will write them back

then I will speak them back

then watch me take them back

and knock. you. down.