You asked me
why I never said the words I wrote,
why my poems were as beautiful and loud as a sweet summer’s night,
but my words often too soft to be heard.
I gave you my poetry.
It was all I had within my tongue-tied world.
There was nothing greater I could offer,
as I had given up on everything
despite my writings to you.
Even now, sometimes,
when I hear my own voice,
I feel trapped within a body that is not mine.
I will write to you again,
until my fingers bleed and you realize
that my written words are my soul unspoken.