sometimes when i write it feels more like vomit

like forcing out words that bubble in my gut and leave acid stains on my blue lined paper

its like finding the stanzas that have been etched into my bones with plastic knives,

peeling them off between the layers of skin i cover up with hello kitty bandaids

its like playing dress up with words from the mouth of a person who belongs in a white room with padded walls

like maybe if we tie a few silk ribbons and add sparkles to this monster of fear we can squint our eyes, tilt our heads a little,

and read it as poetry