The page waits
for your surrender.

The messy kind.

The kind where your fingers forget
which century they were born in

and start trembling
like you’ve just remembered

what it means
to be touched

by something that knows
exactly

how to want you.

Poetry cares little
for clean drafts

or clever lines.

She wants the part of you
that still growls

when someone says your name
like a question

carrying the shape
of a promise.

She wants your hips
in the stanza,

your back arched
over the silence

between what you meant

and what broke loose
from your mouth.

Writing stands at the threshold.

This is entering.

This is surrendering
to a sentence so true

your throat opens
before thought catches up.

You want to write again?

Unclench your jaw.

Loosen your knees.

Release every lesson
you learned about restraint

and let the page
pull sound out of you

like a prayer
that tastes like sweat.

Poetry has teeth.

She carries danger.

She is the mirror
beneath the cloth,

reflecting the version of you
still waiting

to be kissed
into softness.

She is feral.

She is sanctuary.

She is the reason you flinch
when someone asks

how you’re really doing.

This is initiation.

Write from the cut
that still glows

when the night
presses too hard.

Write from the place
where you once begged

to be seen

and found yourself
forgiven.

A muse can wait.

You need a reason
to kneel.

Kneel before the part of yourself
that has waited

a decade and a half

to feel chosen
by your own damn voice.

To write like fire,

burn for it.

Moan for it.

Choke on the honesty.

Take your pen
like a fever

and mark the places
where love once lived

before safety
made it quiet.

Write like someone’s mouth
is pressed against your neck,

waiting to taste
the next line.

Write like your thighs
know the chorus

and your breath
lost the ending,

and the only way through

is trembling.

This is possession.

The poem
writes you open.

The poem takes your silence

until it births God.

Give me the wound.

Give me the hunger.

Give me the words
ripping out of you

as you leave palatability behind

and choose
the truth.

Craft brings you to the door.

Climax takes you through it.

Let the last line
undo you.

Go far enough
to lose the version of yourself

that entered.

Write like your mouth
is full of flame.

Write like your body
has been waiting

its whole life

for this exact sound.

Write like language
wants you back.

And when you begin,

keep going.

Let the page

keep

ravaging

you.