An Illness I Couldn’t Shake

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it started young —
some teacher with coffee breath
handed me a book,
told me to open it.

so I did.

I don’t remember the title,
but I remember the way
the words crawled under my skin,
made a home in my ribs,
and whispered things I wasn’t supposed to hear.

later, I found others:
Hemingway, Faulkner, Plath —
the ones who wrote like they had knives
between their teeth.

I read them all,
ate their words for breakfast,
left their pages stained
with diner coffee and bad decisions.

writing came later —
an illness I couldn’t shake,
scribbled lines on napkins,
receipts,
or the palm of my hand.

most of it was shit,
but some nights,
some beautiful, terrible nights,
the words came fast and sharp,
like lightning splitting a redwood.

people say books are an escape —
not for me.
books are a fight,
a dirty, bloody, bare-knuckle fight,
and every time I expose the pages,
I step into the ring.

and I don’t plan on losing.