Sometimes I find myself
Trying to put words to the sensations I feel inside myself
Like when my heart is racing
I put my hand
Over my heart
I say this is dread;
It’s full; it’s a wave
Of black ink
but it drips red
Drops of my own blood
Into my gut and it sickens
Me until I shake
And I say, this,
Holding myself where it hurts,
This, is suffering
Such simple words:
Characters on paper
That know absolutely nothing
About the human condition
But I feel compelled
To say them anyway
To put black ink back
To paper where it
Belongs and just
Maybe the soul in these
Pages has a heart
That can relate
So I count my friends on paper
Their little hearts I stain with black
On the nights when it doesn’t make sense
And I wait for one, a friend, to finally
Write me back
Lydia Landrum is from the south of the US. This is her first published poem.
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