Until They fall in love

Can you heal a wound

without aggravating it?

The poet in me says no.

The only way he knows

to treat his scars

is to revisit them

until they fall in love with him,

until they're more rhyme

and less sting.

So write on, brother.

Write on, sister.

Write about your heartbreak—

stitch your pain into lines.

Write about your failed suicide attempt—

let your wrist bleed onto the pages.

Write about the abuse

you endured in silence,

only whispering it to the pages

that gave you their time,

their body,

and everything else

in between their lines.

Write about death

while you yourself

die slowly.

This will be our healing.

I say our

because it also touches the hearts

of those who don't have the hold over language

you've learnt from the stranglers

who only let your breath

echo inside your body

till your lungs

pounded too hard

to be contained.

Write poems about writing poems.

I know you carry stories

that carry within them stories,

you're just incredible like that.

So write in the day.

Write in the night.

This is our breaking.

What other art

demands a vulnerability of this level?

To lay bare all your weak points.

To put to words all your pain.

To relive all your worst experiences

over and over again

and even better,

to be known for them.

"You're that guy

who did the suicide poem, right?"

But write off that identity.

Write of your identity.

You're scared

you'll die

and not be remembered, right?

So write so much

they never forget your name.

Write so well

that they drink your words.

Write so clearly

they use your poetry as mirror.

Write so vividly

your books become theatres.

You are the greatest.