I want words my own.
I want them mine,
olive-tinted pearls
of lime and plum.
I want to pierce through
the mucus drops
with an bone awl
salvaged from
my splintered thumb.
I will treasure them
when strung on a strand
of my hair, conscientiously
plucked from a strange pillow
and I will wear these
words around my neck,
where they can be clutched
in times of muffled confusion.