Who am I to write poems? I’m not interesting. I haven’t overcome much. My ego tells me I have no stories to tell, that it would be extremely arrogant for me to take up any space. I would be stealing the spot of someone who actually deserves it. It would rather I stay in the shadows and never do or create anything at all, and mistake that for humility. But humility doesn’t mean believing yourself unworthy; it means acknowledging that everyone else is of equal worth.
It may seem like a meagre pile of stories, but I am the only one who has exactly my collection of influences, my archive of mistakes, my memories of breath-halting awe. I am the only one who can offer that precise kaleidoscope through which to view the world. Isn’t it my right, even duty, to step forward, take my space and present my voice? Even if all I have to say today is “I’m here.”
I am formed of stars and divinity,
and words are how I remember.
But when they fight to leave,
caught like slips of silk on broken glass
in a window frame,
I stumble silent and blind,
unable to express, unable to witness.
I can only pray to brush against
another fragile, untouchable soul,
cuts on their hands from trying
to pull back the words for how it feels
to live within their patched-up heart.
And empty of voices and of eyes,
we interlace our fingers and
press our bruised and beaten palms together,
bleeding each other’s blood
till the darkness feels less lonely.