My Oxymoron

Drowning on cement

while no one

sees the ocean but me.

I feel the salt on my skin

alongside your imaginary kisses.

Many women and men

would die to be

in our position.

We can write with our eyes closed

our hearts open

ready to be diagnosed

analyzed. I can write with

my legs spread wide and

your pen on my thighs.

I can breathe better behind

the typewriter

less sighs

more moans.

I wish I could never leave

this place. It makes me weary

to have to stop writing

and continue on with life.

Must I really eat?

Live inside one room?

Must I talk to people I dislike?

Below my surface

there are no categories

or boundaries. Below my

waist there are your hands

grasping tightly

as I run away.

I can join teams but

I am always alone

in my thoughts.

 

This photo of me

is not really me

I lied

I am not who I am.

I made it up

and no amount

of talking

can hide the tears

I see falling from skies

and mistakes.

I’m a big tiny

poet

with no more pens

in my closet.

 

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