Raw Meat

Sometimes I find my words burrowed beneath my rib cage and sometimes they wonder the neighborhood like a lost dog...waiting to find its scraps and return to safety. Wherever safety might be these days. I think being a poet and writer means you place a heavier value on what you are about to say. Before each word falls from my mouth I've already re-analyzed it three times in my mind (and even sometimes on paper) .

Lately I've had a lot to say but I'm keeping it tucked away. Like Grandmas Ruby ring. Like a wedding fund. Like a picture in my wallet. Why? Because I can't be the one always chasing. Always throwing words to get attention. To show the sincerity of my feelings. It can't always be me giving.

I once referred to words as raw meat. And I still think of that analogy to be true. Sometimes when someone gives me these words (that are to be oh so powerful)  I have to keep turning them over (poking at them to see if they are true, if their actions are proving their words right) to see if they are done yet. If they are safe for eating.  And sometimes they were just right. And sometimes I get a little pink section, or one still oozing with blood letting me know it wasn't ready yet--- And I realize it needs more attention. That it needs to simmer a little longer until it is ready. That I could get sick if If I'm not careful. Will they ever be ready? Fine for eating? Who knows. Realistically. Probably not.  But I wish these words to be safe for eating someday. Even if it means taking a risk.  I'm tired of poking.  Sometimes you just want someone to serve you up something you can believe in. Someone  to bring their all to the table, to share it with you, and you know everything will be just right.