IWillFindTheRightWords

I used to write you letters. Id scribble them feverishly at first, transplanting the weight on my ribs between the lines of my paper. Dissecting every last word until the pressing of fingertips to pencil hurt more than the pressure in my head. I would fold the letters into perfect little squares and keep them in my pocket to feel their weight. Some days I considered slipping them from my possession to yours. Some days I considered rewriting my poems and erasing you from my vocabulary. Neither would be constructive. Instead I wrote more letters, learning I needed them to divulge, to grasp things for my self, more than I needed them to help me understand you. You have taken many forms. In some cases you and I are one in the same. You are my fears, you are my sorrows, you are my struggle to forgive. You are whom I cannot come to terms with; you are what I’ve left unspoken.

 You are who I write my letters to with a steady hand and even pace. 

It’s a funny thing, life would lack its meaning without thought and memory, but being dead means I potentially no longer hold the ability to harness either, my existence, solely in your thoughts and memories. Thoughts and memories of external me, ones I never held myself. It’s as if humans exist in two different dimensions. Who I am to myself is not who I am to you, and once my memories and thoughts die along with me, where has that ‘me’ gone? So here I am, existing, at the age of 21, putting myself down on paper, so that hopefully, a piece of me will never stop existing. 

This fear it tastes of poison dripping slowly down my throat, thoughts my body can not stomach that refuse to sink or float.

This fear we battle quietly as my eyes begin to wake, a purgatory of push and pull until one of us should break.

Hello my fear, A final word, I’ll make it loud and clear. If it’s a message that you hold, speak up so I can hear. If it’s a battle you desire, I assure you I will win. For you are not a part of me but a tick beneath my skin.

If ever motivation struck me, it was in the aging of my fathers hands. Hardened with time, callusing over a legacy.

If ever understanding took me, it was through my fathers hollow eyes. A constant hunger for comprehension unrequited, mirrored by my own.

If ever compassion moved me, it was between the cracks in my fathers quivering voice. A sturdy pine, swaying in the wind. 

If ever acculization greets me, I will direct it gently to my fathers arms. Worthy contentment, I will build my own. 

My skin holds a story I'll share it with yours, extend your hands and I will grasp them. We read goosebumps like braille, each scar holds a novel, our fingertips speak their own language.

Our skin, it sends whispers when its pressed up together, humming, sending hairs on end. Every touch, every brush, as we swoon leaving warmth and stories that live deeply in our pores.