I have words scrawled across trees – omnia, invisible, underground, omphalos, wire --
cut down
flattened
and stacked in my room.

My sentences are my bones
rhythms my pulse
ink my blood
which I smear across the paper.

I give you my words…
I tie them to rocks and throw them through your open window
But, I fear that you’ll shut it after you read them.
I tie them to rocks purposely,
So they’re easy to dispose of.
You can drop them in the river,
and recreate Ophelia.

I’m afraid that you will laugh
and, with each syllable you utter,
my bones will crack.

I hope that you’ll be gentle,
And treat me with care,
But if you dispose of me,
I hope it’ll be in the water.
Then my blood will wash away,
And I’ll be but a ripple.