There are words

breeding in the pit of my stomach

that I do not have definitions for.

Their origin story is acid and darkness,

their world, a rock that does not cease

in its shifting.

They are larval. They are caterpillars

crawling up my oesophagus. They

are pupae hanging, silent in my throat,

Waiting.

No butterflies yet, though they will

surely come.

Please, God, let them come,

let me conjure a breath with enough wind

to rip their wings from their bonds.

Let me find the right definitions.

Let me find something that fits them right.

They deserve so much better than my dark mouth, than

my bountifully hollow body.

They deserve light.

Freedom.

Love.