Pour It Out

i used to write in threes.
three poems, or sort of,
back to back
eyes closed
i let it pour out of me,
i didn't try to interfere
didn't stop to spellcheck or erase,
edit or analyze.

i just tipped the cup
and let it pour
and then when finished,
i would slap down my laptop top
and sigh
a breath of relief
knowing that now since the words were no longer bottled in me
they were trapped on a digital page
inside the circuits
inside the casing of my apple-kissed, aluminum mouth
they didn't have to torture me anymore
they didn't have stick in my gullet
rotting away,
the acid seeping through my stomach lining
and the acid sitting at the back of my throut
and the tendency of my brows
to sail towards each other
in consternation

all this
all this thought
making manifest in my vulnerable body

i've seen it take hold of me
change my chemistry

i've seen it creep along my skin
and cause bumps itching
redness, rawness
as if the rawness of my soul
was making itself manifest

and people would say
you need to chill out,
drink some peppermint tea,
take deep breaths
they would say
do some yoga
some downward facing dog
will straighten you right out

i remember when every morning
brought with it dread––
a panic that if i got out of bed,

i would have no idea where to go from there.

bad times.

i wrote my way to health
and now i'm writing again
and i think
it's a preventative measure.