X for 8 points.

There are things
I'd like to write about
but I can't even
think them.

I take the words
like scrabble pieces
in my head and
rearrange them.

They don't make sentences that
I'd write with pride.
No doubled letters,
no triple-word-score.

So I sweep them
from the table,
let them clatter
to the floor;
I need to think some more.

There are things
I'd like to talk about
but I can't bear to
hear them.

The phrases fully form themselves
and wait there on my tongue like
people at a bus stop
or metro platform.

Clamouring to climb aboard,
kept back by my lips like
doors or a sheer drop
to death if they leap
too soon.

They cling to my teeth
sometimes,
white-knuckled,
'til they grow numb and
let go.

Is it courage, that it
takes to let them out?
Or foolishness?
Is it fear or sagacity
that holds them back?

Either way,
cheeks burn as
words fall from my lips.
They land in ears like cupped
palms. Are they safe?

Or were they better
held back?
Locked safe at home
in bed or in an
Institution.

Put to bed by gentle
nurses, belts and
hairclips confiscated.
Left to grow cold,
quietly.

There are things
I'd like to write about
but I can't even
think them.