i concur that my poetry will always be alive and wild and unhinged and unfinished, always unfinished. there will be no whipping tongue that can tame it, nor my fingers. even if i slit open my appendages, split my skin until they grew canyons and moons rotated around the roundness of my belly, my poetry will remain unfinished, always unfinished. there will never be completion just as there is no completion of a full life. no completion of a sunset sky, because if you look closely, it's always lopsided. the world is lopsided if you look closely. and my poetry is like it. i tire of telling it to behave and telling it to come out of my mouth like baby teeth from my gums, because she doesn't have to. my poetry, unfinished, always unfinished, doesn't have to be complete to convey my soul to you, to those who witness my heart and its inconsistent heartbeats. she will love with tenderness, regardless regardless regardless regardless. always always always aways. unfinished unfinished unfinished unfinished.

she will always be unfi...