I have written these poems about wanting to change myself into a bug 

or fly to reach some sweet spot between burning to a crisp

& feeling eternal tenderness.

I have written these poems about wanting to not have things to write about at all–

about seeking myself in the deepest of senses, hopping outside of my body

& pulling back my hair & making me someone I could even like.

I have written these poems relentlessly as if to write is to speak

so I had decided to give up on speaking altogether & found

my silence.

I have written these poems without a person appearing in my head for

so long it feels like I’m beginning to be disingenuous to

those that see me.

I have written these poems that feel like eulogies climbing out of my throat,

words of worship that will run far more than I ever will. Words that are

as much written in me as

by me.

I have written