You unfurl the vulnerable parts of your inner self—not really yours to claim, this self, only a different facet of the whole, but you claim it either way. You turn it inside out by invoking any language that possesses you to translate feelings into words—words that make me suddenly mute … Ask me anything, you say. And the mention of my name makes me blush and shy away. What to ask this time, Chen?
Do you mind that I stole your words to make a poem? This is not a question you probably had in mind, but since we are here, I have another one. Can you come up with a title for the poem? You are entitled to it, after all …
drip-drip drip the blood starts red, sucks air, turns brown, forms a crust on your knuckles just a little prick, exclaims the thorn and chuckles (in)appropriatetly immune to conscience a fool can blame the rose, no rose knows guilt—this a human fancy wary of the beauty you squeeze and press, you force yourself to trap its essence, try instead to pick that bloody scab off your skin, such a thin layer between you and the world
for Chen, the ghost of a rose
The more a poet calls attention to the ephemeral nature of myself, the more I am inclined to give it away. I like it when I feel that way. Thank you, Fotini--and an exquisite symbiosis with Chen.
Wow! Soooo good. The poem is fantastic! And the fact you crafted it from, Chen’s work is just incredible. You’re on some next level artist stuff now, Fotini. :)