At ten, they released me,
these swordsmen,
these magicians,
pulling thread after thread of meaning
out of their fine silk,
tweed, and cotton sleeves,
loosening the hinges
of what was possible.
The taste of metal released into the air,
a spark caught.
A trail of gun powder led
from my heart to my head
to my hand,
as I put pen to paper.
11 years later,
I lay my forehead
down on this stack
of books—Whitman,
Collins, Olds--
as if to learn them by osmosis,
to absorb with my third eye:
how to be
or not be
in this world,
to take a step
towards the doorknob along the wall
in the dark.
Caitlin Coey is a queer poet and playwright. Her writing focuses on gender-based violence, mental health, queer love, and the importance of friendship. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. Her poetry has appeared in Shambles, The Roadrunner Review, and Awakened Voices. Follow her work at caitlincoeypoet.net and on Instagram @coeywrites.
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