Sometimes I grow
so tired of speaking
my emotions to you.
I open my mouth
and dust spills out
instead of feelings.
Dust, and the yellow
wings of moths,
and brittle paper,
scrawled over
with riddles that
lack solutions.
I am coughing up
the black twists
of candle wicks,
oil slicks
and crow feathers
and afterbirth
and all the ash
of every forest fire
burning
to show you
how I feel.
This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
