where?

where’s the poetry
that used to course
thick and oppressive
through and through my heart?
thumping unevenly,
i remember pouring out
until i couldn’t feel,
not even tell the tears were drowning me
out.

where is that
girl, the
catharsis-producer?
seventeen and tender,
someone said, ‘happy birthday, but you’ll miss all this when you turn twenty.’

i never believed it
but here i am.

letter to myelf,
unwritten still.
still unwritable,
not home yet
not even in my own skin.