Words
“It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio, how we rolled the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces.”
–Richard Siken, “Scheherazade”
There are hundreds of things for me to say, but I can’t seem to find words for any of them. I’m trying to find the words inside of me, trying to figure out how to make my hands work, to press a pen to paper or press my fingers on the necessary keys, but it’s a process.
For now, I’ll have to be content with the fact that I can feel the words and thoughts and half-finished sentences welling up inside me. Eventually I’ll fill to the bursting point and the words will come spilling out of me.
Give me time.
