I stare at the blank page,
willing it to overflow with ink,
to leave some sort of trace of me
on its skin.

But I don’t cry curved
waterfalls

into straight lines.
I can’t make a

masterpiece

prematurely refined.

I can ask the paper,
flimsy and cold,
to bear my

brand,
to seal the blood—
my burning crimson in
block letters—
spat onto
its complexion.
And still, it wouldn’t take.

Even if my soul could be

stretched and shrunk,

thinned and thickened,
it would merely be
a partitioned piece,
a shard that cannot cut
the world
like a chubby cake
unless it can be lit by
the wax that made
me.

Where do we go now?

The tattooed tree corpse soon comes

knocking at your door.
Make sure to open it.

You kneel to the floor,
flat on your stomach,
surfing along the waves I
stained on its
surface.
Can you brave the current?
Some drown along the way.

But if you don’t,
if you stay with me,
you can see to the
deep.

You can see me.
You can hear me.
You can touch me.

And I can feel you,
feel your heart beat against my chest,
it’s risen from the white rectangle;
I can feel your lashes brush my cheeks,
rub all the breaks away;
I can feel your breath,
it anchors me—
laces our lips into
the same cloth.

Alone, I am the pen,

part of the paper.
Together, we are the poem.