[my therapist says i need to find another way to unburden myself]

there’s a chasm in my chest, the depth of a coffin

filled with the memories & warfare

from my dreams. [               ] is a thing with mouth—

parasite feeding on anything that brightens in my body.

at the therapist, i cargo my feelings to the shore 

of my mouth, but my tongue is bloated—useless pink,

unable to unburden this body—language trapped 

in the snare of [               ]. 

     i open my diary & write 

the antonyms for this feeling—a longlist 

of things that used to move my feet to dance.

like the sky befriending the earth 

because a place to pour your [               ]

is still a place. yet, i make a wedlock with these pages.

words streaming out—like tears, like pus 

from a wound that refuses to close. i write 

as if my life depends on it. write / because my life

depends on it. because all i want is to rest

my bleeding head on the bosom of my beloved

because what a soldier wants, 

after the war, is a place that wears softness as skin.