You don’t have to invent it.
You never did.

The shape,
the sound,
the word -
they already exist
somewhere between breath and shadow.

You are not the maker.
You are the listening.
The soft animal that lets it pass through
  without tightening.

If it comes,
let it.
If it leaves,
don’t chase it.

You are not here
to hold it forever.
Only to host
  its becoming.

When your hands shake,
when nothing feels certain,
that may be the exact moment
you’re finally transparent enough
  to carry something real.

Don’t fill the silence too quickly.
Don’t rush to say it right.

Let it move
  through the ribcage,
    through the spine,
      through the wrist
like wind
         learning your name.

It knocked
softly
a breath at the door
but I
bolted the windows
and swallowed the key.

It came wearing warmth,
but I mistook it
for fire,
for teeth,
for grief with a new face.

So I fled,
faster than joy
could reach out its hand
afraid it might feel
like home.

bandaids on my wrist.
i wish they worked.
i wish i did.