She was a wordcrafter,
For she gathered letters in her hands.
She liked to weave wreaths of them,
To encircle them about her neck, her head, in her hair.
It delighted her, the way they rolled on her tongue,
The way they fitted together to reveal a picture in her mind,
A picture she could enfold in the crimson pages of her memory and hold close to her soul.
She was the wordcrafter, the carpenter,
Only she worked alone with her hands, her heart, and the letters she gathered,
Fitting pieces together and
Singing along the melody they made.
People didn’t know that beyond every smile, every laugh, every tear,
That there were words in her head;
Wreaths of them, bundles of them, baskets of them,
Hidden nooks and crevices, hidden away inside where her collections abounded.
Sometimes she stayed up late at her desk,
Unwinding them, examining them, listening to the words and pondering over them,
Before she would mold them and open them deeper still, searching for meaning behind them,
Her meaning. Her words.
But once, they weren’t hers.
Once they were his.
She didn’t know him, didn’t know how he had gathered them before her,
Didn’t know how he too had held them, had unwinded them, had listened and pondered
Had thought they were his,
But before they were his they were another’s.
Once they belonged to the girl who didn’t understand,
The girl who cradled late night thoughts, who fought unknown battles,
Who stayed awake at night in the dark with a swirling mind until her words urged to spill out,
Raw words, bare and scraped devoid of lies, and there she began a journey.
Once they belonged to the boy with too much to say,
The boy who wished they would listen to his cries,
The boy who gathered words but left them there to collect dust on the shelves of his mind
Until he armed himself with a pen, a notebook, and there his puzzle unfolded.
Once they belonged to a woman with a powerful imagination,
A woman who locked them up beside her dreams in a cellblock of her mind,
A woman who crafted the bars with cold, sterile lies born to reality, and those words
Scratched at the tender lining of her soul until she finally listened.
Once they belonged to a man who discovered something new,
A man who found within himself a desire to share his joy with a broken world,
A man on a new path, a path to redemption, a man who found words in the darkest corners
Where he shined light upon them and there, he found beauty.
Once they belonged to me, the wordcrafter weaving myself into this great puzzle,
The wordcrafter who’s cracked open these words, examined them,
Breathed into them, listened to them, sewn them along the seams of my life,
And now I am holding them to you,
Wondering if you, too, are a wordcrafter.