There are poems that she never stops writing, filling page after page until her fingers numb and she has to tap them on the table to wake them. She has no shortage of revelations, in fact, starts awake in the night grasping for ink instead of light, her hair electric with nuance, panting.
For me, the words are like pulling teeth. A bend taken too fast; the clenching in your gut. I write cement sentences that weigh down my pockets, fit together in the same pattern and stand unfinished. I become intimate with demolition.
And you? You are just pages in a book, well-fingered, turning.