In a recent email to a friend, I mentioned how I analyze and investigate and probably overthink things, particularly words, entirely too much. Lyrics to a song, favored had found their way into my brain; and I mulled over them days after our conversation was over. They sat in a petri dish within me, I referenced when I could no longer keep my interpretation of the song to myself.
Words do. They sit growing and feeding and creating. I can never purge them from my soul once they find their way in. They beget emotions, negative and otherwise. And something is born. Perhaps a poem of my own or movement of change or simply an aha! moment.
Because with alarming accuracy
she’d been identifying patterns
I was unaware of—this tic, that
tendency, like the way I’ve mastered
the language of intimacy
in order to conceal how I felt—
I knew I was in danger
of being terribly understood.
And now it grows.