If only I could weave these
tendrils of confusion
into beautiful poetry,
roll it off my body like
the world's biggest sigh,
letting the earth listen and
swallow my years of silence.
If only I could let loose ends
exist without judgment,
without me chasing daylight,
pursuing barbaric paths
to interrogate the mind.
If only I could tell someone
without the fear of repercussions.
Without the telltale signs of
yellow weeds clinging to
unshaven ankles - regret
and fantasy and desire -
how they find their home in me.
But how could I ever be believed
when I barely believe myself?
