Aleathia Drehmer

Magic To Be Found

for Edward

“I only really feel alive when I’m on the poem,”
he tells me,
“the rest of the time I’m waiting to write.”

I think about how
words take over me,
seduce me until I am
writhing in a puddle
on the floor, people
walking passed me
indifferent to my pain.

“I groan and hold my head,
can feel them between my lungs,” he says.

And I picture him
sitting there tortured,
with anguish dripping
from his face, onto his
chest, hand clutching
the place where the
words claw their way out.

“The pen can’t move fast enough
to take away the knife,” I tell him,
through wires and light,
wondering if the blood
on my blade
is his.

 

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