Some days I cannot tell if writing is a band-aid

To help protect wounds while they slowly heal

Often from my own nails when they begin to itch

Or a rope I have slowly been weaving myself

Piece by piece, the noose growing in inches

Until I am able to hang from my words

Some days I cannot tell if the rhythms I string together

Lull the monster inside me to sleep

Or disturb its rest, provoking the beast

SWD 03/2018