The impending feeling rising in your chest was simply your own force,
the pivot of your unaffected childhood voice,
your centre of gravity
traced back to the journal with a frail pewter lock, its pages with hesitation marks on margins, clearing excess ink from the sides of the pen before awkwardly writing life’s master plan,
something manifested and decentred.
But one day, hungover and coming out of the shower,
dripping, like scattered gravity in grief,
you remembered those powerful childhood desires on the page
under trinket lock.
Listening to your voice on paper— a diaphragm lifting —
like a trembling euphoria,
releasing the resistance of patronizing eye rolls and socially conditioned lies,
desire drew around like water with a singular thought:
it’s time to be the writer you are.
You worked so hard to throw obstacles behind you,
the tiny key loop with those thin, twisted keys had dissolved in the molten waters.
But manifestations are only traces of heart.
Your surfaces are subject to tectonic shift, a breaking that will not be contained, no matter the effort to compartmentalize desire. You made such a mess avoiding it anyway.
The volcano cannot be undone.