Most days
I spend time wishing I could explain why I'm backwards.
Why I'm quiet in places where I'm supposed to be loud.
Why I'm loud in places I'm supposed to be quiet.
Why I write hoping that I could spill my blood on the paper,
And it flowed like ink.
So that I could feel as if I put myself into
My work.
Why I feel like an angel speaking broken tongues.
Most days I find that I loose more of myself the more my tears flow more freely than my words ever will.
Most days.
I feel mute to my reflection
