Emberwork

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Create not to be read, but to remember. Not to be praised, but to survive a root plunging downward, alone, without light. Every true sentence born with ache. Every confession crawls out of silence on its hands and knees, filthy with memory, ashamed of its own desperate need. The cry that coils at the base of the throat, behind the eye, in the half-second before you admit what you actually feel. The page is not a surface. It is a mouth, an altar, a field of unburied bones. And your pen It is a hand you haven’t held yet, shaking, pulling something ancient out of the flood. Write like you are not safe. Write like the house is on fire and this sentence is the one thing you can throw from the window before the floor collapses. Write like your mouth is full of your longing. Beware, the taste of what you want won’t let your tongue form anything easy. Forget the grammar of shame. Shun the cleverness of critique. Language is not order it came from the moan of breath pressed into soil and the sound we made wrenching form from ether. Writing is not structure. It is sacrifice. A way of bleeding that leaves shapes behind. Carving open your chest and spelling something tender with the heat. So write. Not to be understood but to become more unafraid of what happens when you are.