December 26, 2019
When I speak, the words drip from my tongue as ink,
and form writing on the ground,
and I leave a trail behind me,
and the ink stains your feet,
and when you walk, words and phrases and sentences are pressed into the soil,
and the ink breathes life into the plants,
and even the grass will flower,
and the bees will flourish,
and they will both sting you and provide you with sweet honey.
The ink stains my chin and my clothes.
Sometimes, I speak into my hands and stain my cheeks as well.
I speak against my fingers and press them into my flesh until I am covered in rosettes.
I stretch my hands to the sky and marvel at how black they are.
And as with the grass, where the ink stains, growth quickens, and I am covered in soft fur.
I fall to all fours and hunt amid the rocks and the buildings, between cars and along trails.
And when I am full, I curl up to sleep, and awake human once again.
My skin is clean and my mind is clear,
and I cannot speak.