Will there still be time for talking
When I am not afraid?
When my voice is no more meek or fraught
And my shame is unlade?
Will I still have breath for speaking
When worrying is past?
When I’m done fearing how I’m thought
Or how my thoughts are cast?
Will I still have words worth saying
When I worry not what’s said?
I suppose it really matters naught–
I shan’t speak when I’m dead.
Trigger warning: Though not the intent of the poem, portions of this could potentially hit on a suicide trigger.
I scribble out words on
fragments of my seashell skin, like
Cracked jars of peach cream currency, like
Shards of broken homes washed up on
white sand beaches.
Searching fingers pry at my insides
fitted in my seashell skin, and
I dance on rocks until I
I tap out whispers to sit in my shell like
I am turning my breasts into
My thighs are too-smooth pages for
I scratch out sonnets on the shell of my smile.
I am seeping from the seashell cracks like
This makeshift house and I must part.
Let the sea snails slip in to be marked
by ephemeral markings,
Let the sea sounds wash away my songs.