my words do not belong to me.
they are imperfect, wild, creatures of the soul.
they are snarling beasts and chattering magpies and taloned and fanged and improper.
once born, they must be tamed,
trained to carry messages to the wider world.
they must learn to be quiet, to sympathize, to speak a thousand, thousand languages.
once born, they must begin to learn about belonging to other people.
the place they come from is mine.
the quiet glade inside,
the bubbling spring of ideas and names that sparkles politely and rages impatiently and sits forlornly stagnant by turns,
the lonely place where I pluck phrases like silver darting fish from the water,
where I arrange them into bodies and minds and souls of their own.
before the end we are crowded there, intentions swirling and desires straining and hearts beating in frenzied time with one another.
and then they are born,
and I am alone again.