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
