By Danyna Capel
Croaking out literature.
Scribbling on emptiness.
My heart moves where my tongue can’t,
My head contemplates what my skin squirms at.
I want my hand to write for the tome, to drink the ink that drips from the pen.
How do I escape the generational jail,
How do I taste the composition,
And sit at the table, where Society and she have tea.
I long to read aloud,
And let sounds flow out of me with ease.
The same way their lips glide across pages,
Trickling with abundance.
And of power.
They whisper and she hears.
Her touch blesses them,
Their vocal cords filter the absinthe,
Their chest expands with each commencement.
Fingers touching together at the tips, diving forward.
Give everything to me, I want all of it,
I want to enjoy the abundance, every last drop,
Let me sit and impress her with what I have to say.
Hypnotise her with poetry, woo her from my core.
Become filled with passion and rage, and hope and belief, and conviction. And fulfilment.
Let me speak.
At the table.
I do not have the words that twists and turns through their veins.
I do not have the words that protect and fight for them.
I do not have the words.
That saves them.
But she will let me paint on her skin, nonetheless.
Let my words sink deep into her, touch her bones,
And calcify the belief she has in me.
I will reach for her hands and see myself written in her palms.
And then she will clasp them together, so I may dive into her.
I will speak loudly,
So that she hears.
For her to teach me again and again.