Reaching forwards,
trailing backwards.
I used to struggle telling the time:
one hand moved so fast
whilst the other dragged-
shadows always felt more
meaningful than
the light
and the masochist in me
never wanted my sins
to be seen.
I crave an empty room now:
space and time
to myself,
a rope ladder
reaching upwards
with something solid
simultaneously anchoring
me below: sun glasses to
protect my eyes
and a direction
a current,
something
giving me a sign
giving me a
lead.
I try
to use words
to contain these
contradictions.
I try to use words.
