I start every conversation by biting my tongue,
Sorting through all the words until I find the right one.
Pausing, waiting, and averting my gaze.
Evading, obscuring, trying to translate.
I play a game of my own making,
A cross between disguising and near-faking.
I write and edit even as I speak,
Try to connect without showing too much of me.
But then you’re looking at me with that shine in your eyes,
That smile that’s for only me,
And I think I’m going to shout it all out,
But I could never allow such a thing.
So I choke it down and then I pour it out, onto another page–
A trade for your freedom, keeping myself inside a cage.
And you’re calling me a poet, but I’m just a careful woman,
Fighting to keep my secrets, dying to give you every last one of them.
I want to ask you, “do you think our footprints are still out there like the moon?”
But I won’t, so I just write.
I want to ask you, “can I confess the only lie I ever told you?”
But I can’t, so I just write.
I write page after page and they spill into book after book.
I let them bury me alive to try to keep you off the hook.
I do it all to reign in the monster I’ve let out.
I bear it all alone to give you the chance to finally get out.
It becomes easy to hold my breath, to always speak with such care.
It becomes easy to let you go, just so I could maybe keep you here.
I know I’ll live and die as a careful woman,
Loving you somewhere safe you won’t know of it.