By: Norah Obuchon

I wish I could write the same way I thought.
Neurotically;
compulsively;
obsessively;
with maddening hunger. 
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
Tangled up in my own words, 
like rope around my neck. 
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns;
until my fingers were numb;
till I could no longer sleep;
till pure exhaustion.
Paragraphs would spiral out rapidly;
like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
I’d write far too much about you.
But I can never get the thought out of my head;
It gets lost somewhere in the space between my pen and paper;
or the space between my lips.
A space that grows into emptiness and fills my throat,
as I begin to choke once again on my thoughts. 
They never seem to make it into words,
I guess I'm scared they’ll come out the wrong way.