Every time I put pen to paper
I ache.
The air squeezes itself
from my asthmatic lungs
and leaves me gasping
as the ink dries.
The smell of my burnt wax pain
presses my presence
into each line.
I can taste the salt of loss as it runs down
from eyes to cheeks to lips
unchecked.
The sound of every silly love song
we imitated fades as I
speak substance into syllables.
I bleed words into patterns that become
my fractals of feeling
and it never stops. Never.
I always bleed out,
and then sunrise resuscitates me,
and then the cycle repeats itself again
at sunset.
on writing poetry [poem]
Larissa Lee 