Before the notebook opened

I was sore and raw and unfiltered

before the world…

highway signs passing by

I was too sluggish to write it all down

so I just kept my good thoughts inside.

Oh, but everything gets to me here in the night.

I’m a twirling flower that the life-giving sun kills.

When the music is playing I fall away, layer by layer.

Oh, my life is like a raw red blister on the lip

sometimes scabbing and bleeding

but never healing.

Surprised rose, I cry for the images that can’t contain me.

All those years I was begging for someone to define me.

One brother was talking on and on

leaving me silent

and the other was a moth-screamer, fluttering around strange lights.

And I was their red blister.

Before the notebook opened, I knew

I was born to hurt for them,

for them and the things I can’t say

because the world and I are too big.