I’m not ready to write
?to expose myself in such a raw manner
that I cannot even close my eyes,
?to shiver where fire used to burn
against my skin, keeping me untouchable, unapproachable.

I’m not prepared to reveal my darkness
and aching and my contemplative thoughts on everything
from reincarnation to why my mother’s eyes
narrow when she looks at me, like she is searching
my unused body for her own pregnant mistake.

I’m not prepared to have my protective skin of misconception ripped from me,
not ready to have people staring,
wondering what happened to the quiet girl
?or the girl with the smiles burnt, straightened
into her hair, where’s that girl with no edge, that ugly girl?

I’m not ready to be the savior, to be held accountable
to all the other girls with fathers who are willed in to not existing
and the girls who’s watchers are abusers
and the girls who’s brothers are out searching for their fathers in prescription pain pills and dank smoke.

I’m not ready to be the example for those girls, those boys
?to have them read my words and understand
so painfully that it sears me to their foreheads.
I’m not prepared to break myself open to handle emptiness
?in bright spotlights, rip out my organs and ration out
the pieces to men with scars and wives without wives.

Yet I shall never be ready.
?I’ve lived as if build to be the example
as if an experiment to show how to survive
?some of the hardest bones thrown out,
as if the dark and the light are supposed to be recorded,
?as if each mistake, each success, is written into
a stanza in my mind, to be emptied at the feet of those who
?need it, or want it like I want to hide.

It cannot be helped, so ready or not,
?here I come, my words, my soul,
?they are on their way now.
and dear reader,
?take them with you, hold them close,
?learn from me now,
? find comfort in me,
??if you were not throbbing like a cold sore,
?if you were not melting,
if you were not fumbling for meaning,
?if I knew I was alone in these matters
these words would never leave my skin.