sticks and stones

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think."
-Byron

last night i ground nutmeg (a stone) and cinnamon (a stick) into a sauce. today i stewed.

there are phrases i carry in my pocket to worry on. some are painful, yet like tongue to bitten cheek i dart back to them and press. others i bring out before bed and curl up against, a blanket tossed over a nightlight blocking out a room full of shadows. my aunt still thinks i burned her comforter this way, but i'm not sure it was really me. i've never been particularly afraid of the dark.

all of these are words, simple words strung together and tossed over my neck. peace garlands from lovers and friends--heartstrings--or, at times thoughtless angry nooses from the same. with my sentimental mind so few have been lost, surely i'm in over my head.

sometimes i can't write about the things i feel most. i want to be raw. sometimes i can't even say them for fear i've uttered them already too many times to too many people. al dente. what if they become thin and hard, worn brittle from overuse.

like the new snow. it's cold, it sparkles, it crunches, i wanted to tell you about it. but i already have. and you, and you and you and you. and i must not mention the streets i'm really walking down inside, when winter hits. i've wanted to keep those times soft, yet memory's visited them so often. there are calcium deposits in my heart and as i get older the drip's only steadier. the path; slippery and increasingly obstructed.

so i wait and meditate on whirlpools. unexpected, deep and slowly turning. still, it isn't new to hope you'll drown in me.