You weren’t supposed
to hear me scream,
from the furthest side of the moon;
from the top of Nanga Parbat;
from an overgrown forest;
from beneath my pillow.
The girl who writes my
thoughts, who writes
my fears and feeds them
to the others
won’t let me sleep.
She screams at me in whispers
until I repeat her sanity
to the pile of feathers.
She wasn’t supposed to hear me
hold my breath...
But she did.
She forced mountain-fresh-air
into my naked lungs
through the pin-prick of hope
I ‘d been saving for the day
that I might reach the
top.
. .
. .
. .
. .
Silver trophy winner
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