My words are the only haven I have. My retreat at night after the door locks. The sheets crumple. My hideout. My lair.
My words are childhood forts built out of sheets and broom sticks, where I gobble down words with hungry eyes.
My words are the realities of my dreams. My metaphors are false attempts. Like Fibonacci attempting to reach Phi. Like men claiming rule over death.
My words are just scribbles. Symbols in a sand box. Like blustery November wind, time washes away my etchings. Did you know that in a cave on the British Isles there are pictures painted 10,000 years ago of buffalo and hunters? Yesterday I lost four thousand words of my life to a small red box with an X inside it.
My words are fleeting.
My words multiply by day and dance by night. My words are pastel Rembrandt parks doused in saline water. My words are whispered mornings and clamorous nights. Chivalrous escapades with horses and poetry. My words are my life’s conceit. My laughter is a hyperbole. So is my cough: A gathering of symbols.
My words are my death and my resurrection. The mythos of my mind. My words are my retribution and my denial. The bible of my tongue. The cross of my ego. The spear my heart wields beneath the cross.
My words are freedom, liberty and justice.
My words are rape, murder and betrayal. My words are scars on soft wrists. Broken Jack bottles. Cigarette burns and wasted breaths.
My words are lies, libidinous and leery. My words are not to be trusted.
My words are my passion. My tears and my bloodshed. My words are the only haven I have.
My words are my words.
And, in the end, my words are just that: words.
