i have no voice; i play
the rests—empty spaces encased
in ink. so i slide between
the notes. giving into
gravity, down through lines:
submerged in lyrics. becoming
running honey sounds off
the page onto my head. falling
star streaks across my
skin and butterfly eyes under
this light. if only i could
lift them higher, away
to the shores i cannot
reach. instead, i fold my
stained black wings, the quiet
tailored to me. I fly in dark
skies to the rhythm of
their notes camouflaged to
the dawn. i bear the
bruises of my sin and
sleeplessness, condemned to
the waning echoes on my tongue.
i will sing out the silences.