Artists.

Sometimes i'm glad
that my words are too serpentine
for you to make sense of-
that way I can let you into my head…
I can lay bare
all the sinister furnishings of memories
and eccentric words
that I quite literally carved into myself,
think of it as home décor
for a girl who thinks in letters
and phrases
and speeches
and languages…
my only designs are the fonts of the words,
sometimes I think in
Times New Roman…
on very special occasions, Broadway,


How traumatizing it would be
for a girl from another dimension,
one who thinks in pictures
and torrents of color
to enter this chasm of darkness
with only the curves and ridges of the letters
for company…
I wonder how I look like in your eyes
midnight black,
with splashes of angry red
and maybe a little bit of violet too
but you could still come over one day
and try to paint inside my head-
and I'll come over to yours
and write words like
petrichor
and euphoria
and probably even labyrinth
just because it sounds pretty-
and then we can finally start to communicate,
words to colors
pen to paintbrush
nib to bristle
artists.