To be vulnerable is to block the breathing tube of regret
with a wad of sticky tack and tell the truth.
Tell your mother you’re lonely.
Tell the neighbor you’re worried that everyone’s going to die.
Tell your best friend that you’re afraid that everyone’s going to die lonely.
truth has always been inside of you, and so has vulnerability,
sitting with their knees pulled up to their chest in the corner
of your heart, waiting to hitchhike through your mouth
so they won’t weigh down your chest anymore.
To be vulnerable is to stop using 2nd person,
because it distances the reader from the writer.
So I’ll tell my mother I’m lonely,
and I’ll tell my neighbor that everyone’s going to die,
and I’ll tell you that I’m worried we’ll die lonely.
but I know that you hear me, and that is the opposite
brush off the winter from your shoulders so you won’t
be so cold and rip off your skin to show everyone
your bleeding heart. the Spring spilled blood brings
is so warm and wet and intimate.
Vivian Parkin DeRosa is an editor, writer, blogger, and intern at Project Write Now. Her work has appeared on the HuffPost and in several small literary magazines. She’s currently working on a novel.