I long for the cheeks to smile,

ways to speak,

words to say

the emotions I cannot feel.

But I’m not a thing.

Or am I only a thing?

A coddled mass

of womb and flesh.

Heart and soul?

A burning whole inside you—

a miracle by another name.


unaccounted for,

and left to be forgotten

from everything but a list:

You did this once.

A memory fairly uttered.

A shudder you work to dismiss.

Where I longed for love—

I felt the tinge of life

brought on too soon.

Truth is fleeting;

intent dissipates,

and the light is a darkness

some will never see.

I hear her call me lucky—

she feels chance is too permanent.

Life is treacherous,


And of that, I will never know.

A laurel scorched with holes;

thought rusted with misuse.

Subtley is thy name:

denial, a refuge.

She will cry over words unsaid.

She will shock herself from sleep.

Permanently will I linger

in a purgatory of thoughts.

Choices make all the difference;

the world is full of regret,

though no one admits to one.


This poem is one of many in which a speaker, one that has never had a voice before, is attempting to speak. Feel free to entertain who that may be. You may also want to critique its merit as a poem. This is fine too. I’m still very much in the composing process.


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