58.

My fingers shake as they fall
on each new key, writing
words my mouth has never learned
to say, to you.

I am so afraid
of making you
so afraid
of me.

There are beasts inside
my chest, and they thrash,
protest,
at every turn:

should I speak to her?
twist, writhe, beat
then I will close my mouth --
flail and moan
so I should start?
twist, wince
or stop?
and throb and hate and flutter harsh

So I am at an
impasse;
I have developed
a begrudging talent for
melodrama (which leaves
a bitter lovelorn taste
beneath
my tongue
and teeth).

It seems
as though

I have fallen

       (on a loss for
                                           words)