I said, "Teach me to write,"
and my words echoed hollowly through the near-empty room,
laughing at me,
in all my raw insecurity,
He looked up,
put down the pen that had scratched through the paper
to sear through my soul,
pushed back his glasses,
and scratched his nose,
looking thoughtfully beyond my surfaces,
until I stood naked before him
wanting to scream.
"Teach me to write," I pleaded, whispering,
choked with my need to reach out
and say something,
make someone react,
for what reason I did not know.
"Teach me to write," I mouthed,
not even breathing the sounds out,
and just when I was ready to crumple,
turn into dust,
knowing my dreams were meaningless longings,
he tapped me on the ear and smiled.
"So you want to learn to write," he said.
"First, learn to listen."