after Michelle Awad’s “I used to be a poet”

i used to be a writer / because someone once told me i talked too much / but that was only after someone else said i didn’t talk enough / i talk more now / mostly on paper / enough that people know i have things to say but / not enough to make them feel like they are forced to listen / i suppose this is my way of speaking silently /

i used to be a writer / because i was scared of growing up / now maybe not so much / if nothing else i’ll remember the time i wasted thinking about time /

i used to be a writer / because it’s my version of a dream journal / and god forbid i wake up from this nightmare and forget what i learned so / i have left it all for someone else to find / like hieroglyphs on the ceiling / like blood on the wall / like an unsolved crime scene / here i was trying to say / if i could i would do my own autopsy but since i can’t / here are all the clues i can muster /

here are my bones sans marrow / my veins sans blood / my skin sans scars

i used to be a writer / because i didn’t know how to be anything else / because my grandmother taught me to never reveal the full truth / because my mother taught me to be a pretty crier / because women in my family have a knack for making devastation beautiful /

i used to be a writer / but i’ve started thinking too much and / it’s getting hard to sort the damage into piles and / i can’t help but feel like my soul is a wishbone / one that is being snapped over and over again / one whose surface is littered with hairline fractures / one who is being pried apart one collagen at a time /