i'm still in the trap of trying to read this novel

it makes me want to tell stories
the kind that i don't want anyone else to hear
but that i still feel a compulsion to set down onto paper
as if the casting of the memory into something that could be held in a hand
could be accessed by anyone
might lessen this sudden and unanticipated relevance
like the pressure of a boot on my neck
and maybe the release is in the control of the words
of making it my story
i'm not afraid
or shouldn't be
it isn't wrong to look at the elements--or embrace the definition--
that make up who we are