I collapse in on myself
so easily, every time -
and my words slip out silently
like beaten refugees, postwar
across the smooth surfaces of
desktops, tabletops,
computer screens & bathroom stalls
without much regard for
capitals or correct spelling,
holding their line breaks like
broken bones.

And I wonder if every poet
hides a name behind the stanzas,
a meaning behind the metaphor.
Poetry is not the destruction
just the aftermath,
the product of switching smiles
for sharper teeth.
Because even postwar
the refugees still carry bruises,
still accuse those offering helping hands
of pointing fingers,
and I still

collapse in on myself
so easily, every time -
watching as my words slip out silently,

Praying they come back
to help with repairs.