Words unheard, unspoken
sit on your chest
like Incubus, like cancer
in the lungs,the claustrophobia
of a heart grown too
large for its cage.
This chest contains
stained memories,
senior keys and locks
of brittle chestnut hair,
hard facts and hard fought
failures, telegrams
and valentines, a poem once
written in bleeding
ink on the back
of a matchbook
that you left in the gap
between the door
and my imagination.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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