Stone walls make loving mothers of my quiet thoughts,
quiet because walls are shy and afraid of meeting new people.
My quiet thoughts have inherited their mother’s traits,
the ones that sprout from the sky,
peeping their heads out of crinkling tinfoil moons
made by children with bare hands and too much spare time,
made by mothers with bare stomachs and too much spare blood,
made by fathers with bare DNA and too much spare cold…

And maybe one day my thoughts will learn how to walk
(right out of my brain and out of my mouth and into space and into you)
and walls will disintegrate into airy, pure, unadulterated silence.
But until then, I will beat my hands with a pen,
watch my bruises bloom,
sprinkle them with blood,
because it’s what they need to grow,
and it’s what I need to feel tears trickle down my skin,
clean me until I’ve learned how to cry,
and I’ve learned how to hold you without breaking my fingers.