I am writing on my skin.
I am writing in a language you do not know.
It is a language no one knows but me.
Each sentence contains only one word.
Each word contains only one letter.
Each letter is written with just one stroke,
but the stroke must be straight as a razor,
and its color must be red.
I write to be understood.
I write in a way no one else can understand.
I am writing on my skin.
I am writing a long essay in which
I repeat the same sentence over and over.
I can't tell you what the sentence means.
If I could tell you, I might not have to write.
If I could tell you, I might not need
this language with its one, straight, red word.
But I can't tell you.
There is no precise equivalent in your tongue.
You have no word for it.
But you'll be getting close if you scream.
for Diana Ingersoll-Cope
Fort Collins
September 23, 2002