My friend cannot write about the wars going on in her homeland.
My other friend cannot turn her pain into poetry.
I have never learned how to write poems
about how my mother hit me and threatened to starve me.
I think that we have trouble turning the ugliest things
we’ve seen into beauty for someone else.
My friend who has been raped cannot write
about the war going on in the homeland of her body.
Sometimes we can’t turn the graveyards in our
bones into stardust.
We can’t write about the things that hurt the
most because we’re so used to keeping
quiet about them.
The pain just doesn’t fit into lines of poetry.
The pain doesn’t take a break
when you pause between lines.