she carries her heart like paper

the creases hold the parts of her unseen

Her poems are scattered and misunderstood

her words crawl back into her words

her truths are scribbled in the margins

at night she

tucks them into the cracks of her soul

only desire can pierce through the veils of her desires

tasting what is real seems a pointless walk

through what is and what is not

she sees the crooked calligraphy

the codex of her truths

lines connecting lines

that anchor her soul to the unseen fabric

of her beginning

she carries her heart like paper

all the while knowing that

it could burst into flames at any given moment

any given kiss, any given touch,

any given word or any given glance

she only pretends that life is not so fragile

but she knows that it is that fragility that binds us all together

it is written there somewhere in the preamble

that someone read aloud before she was born

it is the subtext in all her poems

she carries her heart like paper

as she breathes heavy in white mist mornings

the most alive as she can be

it is silent as she walks through herself

peering through her heart

she bleeds her water in the rain

it washes through the fabric

of her beginning

leaving her soul fresh and unwritten

individuated from any god she could create

she blends into the fog

she carries her heart like paper