the unread poet writes a love poem anyway
say i wrote you a love poem
just for shits and giggles—
because you would never read it
that’s the safest place to hide a body,
you know—
inside a poem no one opens
i could confess entire lifetimes in there
bury bones in metaphors
wrap my heart in butcher paper
and label it
literary device
no one would look twice
because poets are just ghosts
with notebooks
eating light
and calling it dinner
i could write about you
to your face
stand in front of you
bleeding vowels
and you would call it
“nice”
or “interesting”
or worse—
say nothing at all
do you know
what it feels like
to hand someone
a living animal
made of words
and watch them
not even notice
it’s breathing
so i learned
to write quieter
to fold entire universes
into matchboxes
to swallow symphonies
and call it a poem
the unread poet
is a cathedral
with the lights off
stained glass
no sun
pews full of silence
thick as dust
and still—
every night—
they light candles
no one will see
every night—
they ring bells
no one will hear
every night—
they write love poems
and hide them
in the walls
of a world
that only listens
to explosions
not whispers
not paper
not the slow bleeding
of a human soul
through a pen
but i am still here
still writing
like a vandal
like a saint
like a woman
setting letters on fire
and calling the ashes
poetry
because even unread
even unheard
even invisible—
the poem
still
exists
and sometimes
that has to be
enough
