She Had Always Wanted Words

She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. -- Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

She had always wanted words,
craved them like others craved chocolate,
or potato chips,
or steak.
She would awake in the middle of the night
longing for the soft
marshmallow-fluff consistency
of the sh sound,
that comfort food of language
so crucial in the hush hush hushing
away of nightmares.
In her anger she would want words
sharp as barbs,
knives and daggers
with razor-blade edges
jagged with cacophonous consonants
to hurl at her opponents
or at herself
in some linguistic brand of self-mutilation.
She liked to scream obscenities
appreciating the way the airiness of an f
and the violence of a ck
hooked together with a swooping u
captured a particular mixture
of longing
and desperation
and despair.

She had always wanted words:
acidic, coffee-stained declarations of passion,
bright, lemony promises of adventure,
flaky, buttery jokes between friends,
dry, wine-soaked philosophical musings.

She had always wanted words,
words for everything.
She would find her lips straining forward,
pursing themselves,
opening ever-so-slightly,
ever-so-gently,
as if yearning for a kiss.
Her tongue would roll around her mouth
brushing her cheeks,
her teeth,
her lips,
searching for the right contours,
the corners
and curves
to catch and cut and soothe.
She promised herself
if she found the right words
she could build her world,
structure a life around beauty
and logic
and love.