Like Locked Rooms*

When I was little

I would write

and I would tear out the pages rampantly.

Page after page after page.

Now

I still do.

That handwriting,

Scapegoat.

Everything I loath.

The imposter,

journaling.

Now,

Writing. Still.

The voice in my head on the page.

Hideous.

Breaking my own heart.

I love what is slight. What is unassuming. *

But up until now, my slightness

That’s all I read

on the page.

No matter

My might.

And this rattling, paper-thin

tissue-paper.

Sounds loud,

wears thin.

I want nothing

but

to pull it from the bind.

Page after page after page.

*Both phrases inspired by reading Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters To A Young Poet):

If you hold close to nature, to what is simple in it, to the small things people hardly see and which all of a sudden can become great and immeasurable; if you have this love for what is slight, and quite unassumingly, as a servant …
You are so young, all still lies ahead f you, and I should like to ask you, as best I can, dear Sir, to be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, like books written in foreign tongue.

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