I found my niche. In the silence.

I guess it was always wallowing in the corner,

waiting for me to open it.

Like a gift on Christmas,

wrapped in gold tape.

I couldn’t grasp the concept

of truly visualizing

how words could melt paper —

just like butter.

Smells of summer rain,

and filt holes

that were never meant to be there.

Writing shimmers in my wrists,

intricately weaving my very bones

into the rivers of refinery.

The wine isn’t bitter anymore…

every page I write from here on out —

Filled with everything,

but scarcity.

Gripping every piece of gold I can.