i've forgotten how to write:
a pencil feels foreign, like using
a hand made of thumbs
that's unsteadily forming not
words, but squiggles and
curves and lines.

i used to be full of words --
they lived in my bones,
i hoarded them and ate them
for breakfast, binged on them,
purged on them.
peek inside -- the words i buried
are rotted away, and
turned into compost.

look past the sunken cheeks and
jutting, angular bones to pry
my jaws apart and you won't
hear a peep -- glance/yell/whisper
down and you'll echo and bounce
inside cavities of hollow, skeletal ribs

(bird-bones on top of a building
that could fly in reverse, perhaps?)

i've forgotten how to write
and it's slowly -- ever so
slowly starving me.