where I put those stories

If you read through the journals,

1995-2010,

you will not find 

the account of the 

car wreck,

the night terrors,

the fifth floor hospital ward,

or the suicide notes.

Instead you will hear the tale

of stale laundry,

a clutch of daffodils,

that teapot that one girl broke.

The sky was blue.

It rained again.

 

Those other stories are 

painted along the railway

of my vein and bone,

carved

into the fissures in my molars,

stretched along the tendon in my neck.

 

Bring your ear close.

Listen to

the braille of my heart beat,

its erratic

thump.