I don't know if I'm written in code
or if it's just impossible for anyone to know
what I say when I say anything
(maybe it's just my handwriting,
scrawled like the letters themselves are melting,
sliding, dripping, butter softened in the sun)
but if ever anyone learned to read
my words, hanging in midair like they're waiting to grow,
like seeds buried in air, twisted around my fingers like locks of my hair,
maybe there's someone who could see the shades
of color difference between truth and lie
between do and die, will and won't,
words slipping from my lips, too heavy float
for long, too impatient to wait
for long, they fall,
for too long they spoil in the sun,
spilled loose over hot concrete and boiling up
with vowels drifting to the top
of a syrupy soup of consonants,
and they taste like strawberry chapstick, sticky-smooth,
too heavy to wear for long.
