The fact I’ve written something that looks like a poem doesn’t make me into a poet. Nope. It is only because I’m a woman with words inside her that won’t stop themselves trying to escape – however badly they manifest.
You don’t need to hold on so tight
It’s true, your air-tight fist is unprisable
Proud of never letting go
If your knuckles are white and the veins bulge, what’s going on?
Turn over your hand for a moment and you’ll see
A palm-sweat lagoon of sunken wreckage
It doesn’t matter if it’s the iridescent wings of a moth
Or eggshell hopes
They’ll be crushed all the same