Eating fruit from the tree
of anxiety that has taken root,
laden in my belly
You know. It’s that
sweet honey nectar
spilling from the corners of my mouth,
rolling down my chin in slow, sticky rivulets,
licking it ticklish off my fingertips,
kind of easy.
I tell myself I should be writing
but instead, I write myself
out of every poem and every script
and every story ever created.
I eat from the tree and disappear,
wondering why people I’ve met a thousand times
in a thousand lives
can’t seem to remember my name.
I sometimes wonder if the ancestors can remember my name.
Roots burrowed deep in
my spine and curled
heavy around my ribs.
Eating that sweet fruit feels like coming home.
A saccharine embrace.
I eat from the tree and become a shadow,
scribbling my face out of pictures,
and leaving only the faintest trace of myself
in the paintings.
I tell myself I should be dancing,
but instead I move invisible in the choreography
growing and shrinking in the light,
fading out like a photograph left in the sun
There but never quite…there.
I tell myself I should be speaking,
but instead, my voice eats me alive.
I wonder why I have a sickle for a tongue,
and I can’t remember if I was ever really here.
You will have trouble remembering if I was really here.