Poetry has to wait

She didn’t know how to speak poetry. Her words were concrete like buildings, heavy, poorly proportioned. She wasn’t at home in this language.

The architecture of her life didn’t allow for more beauty, though she craved it. She often felt like she was locked in a dark room without any air circulation, that she could suffocate there, choke on the syllables as they passed her throat.

No matter how much she kicked the door or shook the handle, they were as unyielding as her thoughts, dense as cement.

When she tried to scream, only a chime came out, tempered, timed, controlled. She could hear the faint sounds in her head, but couldn’t figure out how to vocalize them — they got stuck on the assembly line of her family, education, life, in short, a life she built deliberately and with purpose.

She wanted to take a wrecking ball to it all, but she couldn’t recall where she had put it. For now, poetry would have to wait.



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