My quill speaks slower than me…
a good thing, that way I can’t get ahead of myself
and tell innocent paper things I’ll regret.

My quill sneaks its way into every corner
like dreams and desires and battleships,
but maybe that’s a good thing when I’m breaking

My quill falls with me for humans
I don’t even know, I learn the second
letter of their names and I’m already gone

My quill repeats metaphors with me
so I can try to understand those humans, why
I can’t build them a perfect world with my fingertips

My quill is sometimes stronger than
everything I am wrapped into one, so
I shove it back on the shelf, I want to be weak

until I remember how easy it is
to empty myself with a simple word
and start over with blank faces

I bite my howling words, shriek
as the paper turns black with too many heartbeats
and past footsteps, the ink feels too much like me

If I just give my quill everything I am
maybe it can have all the living
and loving and bottled-up loneliness, so

I don’t have any more reasons to
shudder in front of disappointing blank
pieces of paper when the quill’s not enough

My quill tells you all the things I can’t,
shows me who I miss and who I can live without
(which are often the same people, go figure).