I worry about writing a narrative

Telling you clearly what happened and when

I can’t seem to capture the fact

That in sorrow I find survival

Or in joy is that terrible fear

My prose won’t let me tell you

Those layers of my internal life

That the sad story is really silly

And the silly is really sad

How do I tell you chronologically

That everything is connecting back

To my smaller self and that I want to slip

my fingertips in to the future

and simply feel my own heart beat

I know that I survive these stories

I know that my poetry says it better

And that all events

Have happened and are always happening

In my heart

The beats are always the same

I am

I am