In Elementary school, I stuttered.
W’s were worst.
Like wolves, they leered at me, bared jagged teeth
from the pages of fairytales.

So teachers sent me
to experts in office back rooms
with flash cards, fake wood tables, books.

After several sessions, they said
my mind moved too quickly
for my mouth to catch up.

I've always chased my thoughts like raindrops
spiraling in breathless air,
scaling me, their eyes shining, scared
of shattering.

I'd watch them fall across car windows
from my car seat, stained like storms.
And as they'd race toward the edge,
I'd hedge bets.

But inside, I move slow as time,
as Earth
red rocks and rising tides
climbing down and up
in lines
you traced with your fingertips.

When you left me, you moved like my mind.
You trembled over me,
violently
crumbled me,
finally,
the darkening tranquility
broken,
fallen open,

frail as rain.

As if I, earthly, only weighed you down.

Since then, I have found
a canyon,
that sits between my ribs,
small and silent,
a spoon-sized grave
shaped like a raindrop.

And I think it’s always been there.

And if you held your head against it,
(like you used to,)
you'd hear the ocean,
gently rocking you,
washing you
away.

Labels: By Ana