Rain etched the windowpane once more this week
We drove by a pond where a lowly soul drove through the fence
And I thought of ending my life then and there
You were the first thought that teetered into my mind
And jostled with my words
I grew bitter and raw
At the thought of dying without my unspoken words being heard from you
I understand your unfathomable capability to understand me
For who could love a poet
Who desires a rose’s thorns to prick her skin
And feel the pain her own undying insides have kept from her
In the end
I hope you read my envelopes of poetry which I slip beneath your door
For this is my language
And nothing I say
With a tongue that trips over the every bump of my tongue
Could amount to the jumble inside of me.