Write your truth,
however it may come.
Prick your fingertip and let drops of yourself
scarlet across the blank white page, waiting in abandoned thirst
for you to arrive upon it.
Write like you peel a tangerine—one asymmetric piece at a time.
Write like you make love—slow, soft, with patient lips meeting lips,
or, rip the clothes off al the syntax and fuck the shit out of all the vowels.
And I say vowels, because they seem supple, rounder, more fuckable.
But, if you like the hard lines of consonants then fuck them too.
Spread yourself, like butter across freshly warmed toast.
Not like jelly, don’t remain partially stuck to the silver knife. Let yourself go
and forget where you begin and the words end.
Forget where creamy meets toasted and just let it all be crumbs.
These crumbs you will follow back one day,
along the forested trail overgrown with a thousand shades of green.
You will find these crumbs like jewels and collect yourself
in the deep pockets of eternal time.
Write the mundane shit. The non-esoteric, “un-evolved” feelings
of wanting to run from your own skin.
Dream yourself into a new language, in an old village
where life has been decided long before you began.
There’s only so long you can turn your mug
upside down and watch as the last drop of tea moves
like Pac-Man against the ceramic, one direction at a time until it dries.
It will dry. We must write our juice.
We must write while we can still tilt ourselves and traverse lines
across the bottom edge of what makes us, us.
We must write ourselves into the fabric of everything we have yet become.
Because unlike your skin, hair, and bones,
your words you take with you when you go.
Life, like land, is formed when fire meets air meets water,
when thought meets emotion meets language—the edge of a moment.
Write like breath because it is.
Write like home because you are.
And build yourself, one fallen branch at a time, around yourself.
Build yourself with words that will outlive you, that will permeate the ground water—will penetrate the molten center—will saturate the mystery we must live into—
one. single. word. at. a. time.