Writing Brokeness; Broken Writing

I sat down to write this afternoon.

To rid myself of ache

pulsing below soft skin

in veins volatile with

dreams and nightmares alike.

I could not.

Could not: wrap solid words

‘round hurt and desire,

Could not: push square

through circle,

(too brittle, breakable, real)

Could not: make paper

accept ink, accept word, accept thought,

accept me.  

There was hurt that rippled through--

pain settled deep

in gashes

long considered healed.

Weakness sunk

soft in my belly,

kept me from crying out;

my soul fluttered

anywhere but here.

I looked down,

saw what I’d become,

and wept.