I’ve seen life take
a librarian,
a beautiful woman,
intuition like no other.
Cancer, they said.

My friend really loved her.
She was the first
to notice he was gay,
and she accepted him.

So we climbed into his
Toyota Tercel,
winding down curves,
up the mountain,
toward the funeral home.

People sat in rows of nine,
a special couch reserved
beside the casket.

The dead have always
bothered me,
like a one sided conversation,
like the air in my lungs
was a debt I owed.

So I sat in the back,
people watching as I do,
a wallflower,
star jasmine pressing
against the concrete.

Close to the exit,
in case discomfort
asked me to leave.

Then her husband walked in,
a man I’d never seen,
only heard in stories.

He went straight to her,
pressed his hands
against her face,
like he was
trying to hold on.

He cried.
His voice tore
the room apart.
Collapsed to his knees,
hands trembling with rage,
words ripping from his throat,
sharp, jagged, impossible
to take back.

Not a prayer.
Not a conversation.
It was a howl
that made the
walls bend,
love dressed in grief,
so fierce
it seemed to claw
at the air itself.

A good lover
she must have been.

And I understood:
maybe no one listens,
but the silence
always knows
what to say.

I learned to love
long after angels forgot how.
Long after the timing made sense.
Long after most people would admit it,
maybe out of shame.

But I learned to love.

Y lo sé,
mi amor,
que aún
no te vas.
Pero si llega
mi vieja
mala suerte,
si el destino
me mira
de reojo,
por favor,
no me digas
adiós.

Si no, lléname
la nevera
de besos
y abrazos
que no se
enfrían,
por si me muero
de hambre
y no de pena,
por si me faltan
tus labios
en las madrugadas.

Esconde piezas
de ti debajo
de las almohadas,
entre sábanas
y bolsillos,
para hallarte
en los días
donde el sol
olvide mi nombre.

Lo sé,
mi amor,
no es tiempo
de marcharse.
Pero si el reloj
tropieza
con mi sombra,
si el adiós
se asoma
sin permiso,
por favor,
no me lo digas.
Solo quédate
un poco
en cada rincón
donde te soñé.

Adrift in salt waves,
Closer to sea than to roots
Mountains keep still.

loving you
has always felt like muscle memory.
like something my body
already knew how to do.

some mornings,
i find you in the kitchen,
barefoot,
your hair falling soft down your back
that streak of silver catching light
like it has a story of its own.

your lips move
the way i imagine
god meant lips to move,
and you smile
like you know
something about peace
that no one else does.

you don’t try to be beautiful.
you just are
in the way your eyes crinkle
when you laugh,
in the way you tuck your hair
behind your ear
without thinking twice.

some days,
i watch you move through the room
like it was built
to hold you gently,
and i swear
my chest remembers how to beat
because you’re near.

i’m sorry,
but loving you
is still so easy.

questions don’t live rent-free.
i pay for them daily
in the pause before i open my eyes,
in the stretch of silence between
brushing my teeth and leaving the house.

i don’t even want answers.
just quiet.
just enough stillness
to make coffee without thinking
about my funeral.

who will be there?
will i even make it
to grandchildren?
will they know the sound of my laugh,
the weight of my arms,
the way i stare too long when i love something?

will i ever be
a dad?
a husband?
someone who feels like home
to someone else?

someone worth
having children with,
worth staying for?

the urge to leave
never says goodbye.
it just lingers in the corners,
waits until i’m lowest,
then whispers its name
like an old song.

and still,
none of this showed up today.
these thoughts didn’t knock.
they didn’t barge in
like a drunk friend
or some stranger needing a phone call.

they’re more like
the sheets i haven’t changed,
the dust that outlines the mirror,
The trash in my car.

they don’t haunt me.
they live here.
and they stay
because i let them.

I didn’t want
to wake up today,
As I look
into the mirror,
I see myself,
Rugged, pieces
Here and there,
Almost handsome,
Almost there
But good enough,
I get out the door,
Jump into my car,
Notice the tags
Still say 2024
As I press
The gas pedal
And feel the machine
Alive once more,
I have to get
around that
Some day.

They won’t recall the words I chose,
The soul forgets the spoken word,
they’ll fade like footprints in the snow,
dissolving under summer’s heat.

But deeper into forgotten sands,
Where spirits drink from unseen wells,
The weightless grace that stood between
Flourish into palm, citrus and olive trees,

So let me be a whispered prayer
That lingers long after I’m gone,
A touch of God underneath the skin,
A warmth that carries someone on,

Not what I have or what I gave,
Not what I’ve said, but how I’ve knelt,
Not who I was in flesh and bone,
But what their spirit felt.

I run my hands
through passion fruit
vines and watch
the juice drip
down my elbow,
It stains,
slow and sticky,
like blame.

I laugh,
I speak,
and the walls shrink.
Is it me?

I never know
until you flinch.

I
Flamboyán whispers,
wrapped gently by the nightfall
the coquí sings true.

II
Clouds become soft quilts,
dreams live curled in the branches
under a sky full of stars.

III
The breeze calls my name,
it smells of earth and heartbeat
my soul finds its rest.

Something is wrong in heaven,
Maybe dinner hasn’t been
Too puntual lately,
Or rays of sunshine
Have found themselves
Hiding behind the
Dark of rain clouds,
And angels hum off key,
Missing the harmony
Of one less voice
At the table,
A chair left empty,
A prayer gone quiet,
Maybe heaven mourns, too,
In its own small, quiet way.

I cleared all the rubble,
turned it to mulch,
a soft bed for blooming
above my chest,
behind my ribs.
A garden grows
where grief once rooted,
touched by morning sun
and the warmth
of summer’s start.

Something gentle
is growing in me.

I find myself here
Under the sycamore rain,
Again, loving you.

The sky rumbles.
The smell of rain
comes through
as it drops ten degrees.
A wall of droplets
covers the open
greenhouse,
just after the caladiums
and the English ivy,
posted nicely
on symmetrical tables.

The wind dances
with the tall trees.
I can barely hear myself think
or talk
God is angry today.
Lightning strikes.

Arturo,
this 5’6” Hispanic old man,
acts as if he’s scared.
“Ay ay ay,” he says,
as he looks at me laughing.
We all sit,
waiting
for the sudden rage
to stop.

The roof
becomes a drumline,
each beat heavier
than the last.

Arturo crosses himself.
A silence blooms
between thunderclaps,
and in it,
I catch myself wondering
about the things
we don’t speak of,
how laughter
can be a kind of prayer.

I wish for coffee,
as if warmth
might steady the world.

The rain doesn’t ask
for permission to soften.
It just does.

My lovely marigold,
With orange blooms,
In the mist of summer
I found you, hiding
Beneath the shade
Of a great oak
As the waves of wind
Spoke in sonnets
And stirred the tall grass.

It was so easy to find you then.
But now you hide
Beneath cold stones,
Letting your roots grow
Without me.

Still, I’ll wait
Against the trunk
Until sunset
Falls asleep to the breeze,
Hoping to wake
Curled in your arms
While the last stars
Flicker above.

Amor mío, mi alma
fuera de mi cuerpo,
te sientes como el
sol mañanero
tras una noche oscura,
tormentada.

Tu sonrisa
se asoma en tus ojos,
tu perfume se arrastra
por la almohada,
se queda pegado
como chicle.

Cuando me despierto
y no estás a mi lado,
me comeré las migajas
de ti
con una taza de café.

Muchos no entenderán
cuánto te anhelo,
desafiantes,
contra una
corriente.

Be careful
when you decide
to sit down and rest.
You might take too long
and the sadness
might not leave.

No one’s here
to lend a hand,
so keep an eye
on the oil in your car,
the way your teeth
are falling apart.

Tend to your hurt.
Cradle it
rock it to sleep
against your
beating heart.

Drum your pooling blood
onto the page.
Write life.
Rest.

But please be careful,
the world keeps going,
even after death.

I’m at a new place,
with new people,
new opportunities.

In a shed, taking a 15,
I sit on a roll of wire.
I’m not fully here today.

The months go by
the days, the hours
I barely feel them anymore
as I zone out
into the open insulation.

My socks are wet from watering.
When should I get up?

Colorful pants walks in.
Distracted eyes sit down.

Long walks
out into the wilderness
I’m not ready for conversation,
too tired today.

There’s a new black cat
Running around my
Apartment complex,
Where has it been?

My mind murmurs,
As the cat yawns
By the street light,
Distracted, as if it
Know I’m watching.

I turn on
My cigarette from
The filter,
A subtle sacrifice
Slipping through
My fingers,

The cat is no
Longer here.
It’s gone.
The night swallows
It silhouette
In silence.
Maybe it was never
Meant to stay.

I sit a while,
As everything slips,
The smoke,
The silence,
The cat,

Even memories
Have soft edges now,
Faces blur,
The color of eyes,
Smiles and
laughs.

Like breath on a mirror,
Vanishing before the
Night turns old.

Still, I wait a little
Longer just in case
It comes back.

I hope to stand,
a few years from now,
where I once stood
frowning,
growing old
and reliable,
able to walk
on my own two feet
without flinching
at the rot of memory.

I hope the wind
still carries a tune
and maybe the smell
Of jasmine,

And somehow,
some way,
I’ll see my reflection
not just in tinted windows,
or puddles that ripple
with passing cars
but in the steady gaze
of someone kind,
quiet,
willing to stay.

Maybe, just maybe,
I’ll be wise enough
to see myself
in the tired eyes
of a stranger,
or the half smile
of someone I used to be.

And I’ll sit beside him
on a park bench
or a broken curb
Or the bridge above
The high way
Glaring at headlights,
and tell him

everything will be okay.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But okay.

I’ve held them
in my palms,
felt the weight,
watched them ripen
and grow moldy,
forgotten on
the kitchen table.

What a waste
of good lemons
they could be turned
into lemon bars,
or lemonade.

But I never knew
how much sugar,
how much stirring,
how much time
it takes to make
something sweet.

When do I learn
how to
make lemonade?

I hope i get out alive again.

I've done it multiple times,
this isn't a first.

But still,
I hope.

I’ve been so down lately
that when I wake
to face the sun again,
I pray for rain
clouds to keep me company
in this sickness.

And what a privileged sickness it is.
People are starving,
others bleed from iron
their bodies don’t need.
A century or two ago,
even an aching stomach
was a reason to fear.

Yet no cure exists for this.
Not the sunrise,
not the long awaited bloom
of Chinese fringe trees,
not the scent of fresh baked bread.

I fear early mornings,
losing my hours,
my eyes, my face.

Some tell me to accept
the possibility of God,
but I’d rather wake
to a beautiful woman by my side.

It’s sad, and not sad.

And suddenly, it’s night again.
She succumbs to slumber.
Maybe I can too.

I miss you,
on afternoons after long days,
new calluses forming
from gripping buckets,
on endless drives
where my eyes fight sleep.

Where are you,
my love,
that I don’t see you
or feel you
resting on my chest,
your bare knee
tucked between mine?

Morena,
beautiful girl who loves with her eyes,
roses pressed into every kiss,
I miss them,
every morning I wake
with only dawn to keep me company.

Kiss me, pretty girl,
tangled in a sea of sheets.
Kiss me now,
and later,
on lonely mornings
and quiet afternoons.

Do it now,
as the air fills with pollen,
as spring unravels red buds
one by one.

The pecan trees know
the cold won’t return.

So let me hold you,
my aching hands wrapped around you,
for as long as you are here.

It’s a sunny day,
I watch you
Slip through
My fingers
As I dip my hands
Into you,
Smoke dangling
From my lips
Like scars.

Tell me,
My love,
My new love,
My new found love,
Will I lose you too?

The tide pulls back,
a quiet thief,
stealing footprints
before I can trace them twice.

Tell me,
is love always like this?
A flicker in the dark,
a matchstick kiss,
a fleeting warmth
Tired and soulful eyes.

Or will you stay,
linger like salt on skin
like a song I whistle,
long after the music fades.

I used to pray at night,
before bed,
to wake to another morning,
to be spared from the evil
that roams this earth.

I was raised on Catholic morals,
grew into this body
with their weight on my shoulders.

The golden rule only applies
to those who apply it,
morality blurred in the unexpected,
lost between who’s right
and who’s wrong.

the mornings
keep getting longer.

Es evidente que te amo,
aunque aún no sé exactamente cómo.
Solo sé que se esconde en su sombra,
siguiéndome por las calles de la ciudad.

Lo descubro en sus ojos, su voz,
su boca, su sonrisa que trepa
como enredadera por sus mejillas,
ruborizada hasta las orejas.

Yo sé que te amo,
eso es evidente.
Y su risa, sus suspiros,
sus pasos,
y tu corazón que te delata
cuando uso tu pecho
como refugio, mi amor.

Te amo como si ya te hubiera amado,
como palabras fugaces
destellando en la noche,
entre las ramas florecidas
de un árbol cuyo nombre aún desconozco.

Perdido, me encontré
otra vez amando.

Mientras su cuerpo,
liso donde debe ser liso,
descansa sobre el mío,

y sus ojos,
usualmente café espeso,
se cierran,
cansados de días
tan aterradores,

mientras su respiración
sube y baja en mi pecho,

siento, señor,
hoy siento.

Y en este instante,
eso basta.

Me siento a comer
después de un largo día.

Observo las mesas
mientras espero ordenar
lo de siempre.

Un hombre,
cabello *****,
piel un poco más oscura que la mía,
frunce el ceño.

Sujeta el tenedor
como un puñado,
lo golpea contra el plato
entre cada mordisco.
Los clacks resuenan,
irregulares, secos.

En la tele,
las noticias murmuran algo
sobre redadas, sobre cifras,
Aviones cayendo del
Cielo, aceite y alcohol.

Desvío la mirada.
Vuelvo a mirar.
Tres veces,
hasta que nuestros ojos
se encuentran.

¿Es odio lo que veo en ellos,
o quizás miedo?

Me pregunto,
¿Qué verá el en
Los míos?

It’s snowing.
The kids are outside,
laughing, building little moments,
As they cuddle the snow
In their hands,
mothers framing their joy
maybe it’s their first time
seeing snow in person.

For me, it’s only the second.
The first was barely snow,
more like ice
brushing concrete,
clinging briefly,
melting as if it knew
it didn’t belong,
Inevitable.

Back then,
a silhouette followed me,
a woman I loved.
Her eyes rested on my shoulders,
her steps trailing mine,
as I, spellbound by the ice and the cold,
ran wild across empty, frozen parking lots.

In another life,
I might have prayed,
might have begged,
Might have hoped
for that moment to stretch forever,
but my hands are hurting now,
and the snow is already melting.

Hoy me desvanezco
entre las sombras
de un ayer.

He escrito tanto
que ya no sé
qué debo sentir.

Ya no lloro
como solía llorar,
pero amo aún
como solía amar.

¿Será crecer
el no sentir?
Entonces,
¿para qué crecer?

Sufrimiento inútil
que trae felicidad,
shots de dopamina
en botellitas de
cincuenta miligramos.

Qué pena vivir,
no sentir,
desaparecer.

Esperaré la primavera,
con petunias y rosas,
árboles de colores,
y un frío
que puedo soportar.

Pero qué pereza
esto de vivir
si no pudiera amar
ni sonreír.

Hoy salgo a las calles
a caminar,
me perderé en los ojos
de extraños,
ojos llenos de vida
y de potencial,

que han amado,
que han despreciado.

Y conectaré con quienes,
como yo,
también desaparecieron
en busca de su ser

Every morning,
when the city still sleeps,
and skyscrapers glow softly
against the dark canvas,
I drive through
its quiet pulse,
finding a strange solace
in the mundane.

The beauty of the artificial
like catching the gaze
of someone you love,
their eyes familiar,
or cradling a warm cup of coffee
on a bitter winter morning.

Don’t get me wrong,
my mind still wrestles
with suicide notes,
drafts of nothingness
beyond death,
or whispers of
reincarnation.

But I’ve been learning
to linger in the sunlight,
to cherish a good conversation
with someone twice my age,
to lose myself, head nodding,
to a new album
on the drive home.

Maybe it isn’t so bad,
even if, some days,
it feels like
they’re winning.

I’m no killer,
But every once
In a while
I look at
The knifes
And ponder
A little too hard,
So instead I grab
My jacket and go
Outside, smoke
A cigarette,
watch the rain
Caress the concrete,
Creating little
Rivers,
I wonder
If my blood
Would pool,
Or if it’ll run,
What oceans
Will it find?

How heavy it is
that I seem to find
you in the eyes
of those I love now.

So inconsiderate,
wretched ghost,
poltergeist,
specter that haunts
my every sleep.

Following me
into every store,
every car,
every plane,
and boat.

How could
I ever live
without you,
when it’s you
that haunts
me?

I’ve met a beautiful woman,
her face native to a land
that’s not mine
but I would still recognize it.

There’s no second thought about it:
she’s native by blood,
by eyes,
by cheekbones,
by the warmth in her skin,

a warmth that transcends
her shirt, my shirt,
my skin,
finding its way toward my soul.

Lightning strikes twice
campfires and oven mitts.

What a disrespectful way
to love someone,
but I wouldn’t wait
to love her.

I think I should
disappear
for a little while,

hide beneath rocks,
sleep on park benches,
let the world forget me.

I’m throwing all
my effort
into nothingness

it offers no response,
no echo,
no hope.

Tired eyes,
a heart in despair,
waiting.

You must
taste me first
to love me

like I’ve been loved.
Oh, how I
need love now.

I wonder how long
consequences
will shadow me,

grappling tight
to the hunch
on my back.

Nothing is deserved,
or do I know
I deserve better?

When will a
hungry man
find rest enough

to stand,
to provide,
to believe,
to want?

Jesus, why am i like this?
Why does nostalgia run
Through my veins like
It should be there,
If the feeling leaves,
I would probably miss
It too.

Back home,
lying down after a nightly walk,
the sky transforms,
a ceiling lit with holiday fireworks,
a web of little light bulbs
that flicker into shapes,
I see a a kite, and a smaller kite,
things unseen in the dim of the city.

Yet, I still feel lonely,
in the city,
Or in the corner streets I once knew.
I rise and walk
towards a home I once called home.

Each step, heavy with melancholy,
Some share the rythm.
Hands buried in my pockets,
holding on tightly,
somehow,
to my heart.

The ship goes down again,
And I go down with it,

Pummeled by opposing waves,
I linger.

Another pair of eyes,
Another warmth against my skin,

Another strand of hair
My hands have traced

Built castles,
And demolished them.

Turbulence,
So much turbulence,

I drown
In this everlasting feeling.

Yet, I reach for the surface,
Moonlight just out of my grasp.

home cooked dinners,
Fresh cinnamon brownies,

Just out of the oven,
A last minute road trip

Your hands, my hands,
Your lips, my lips.

Another soul
To miss.

Many times I've loved,
And many times I've
Written about love.

Many times I've left,
And many times I've
Written about leaving.

I've loved with my
Heart in hand,
Blood pooling,
Words flying
Out of my mouth,
Crashing upon their skin
In an act of valor.

The same thing
I could say about leaving
Words sharp,
Striking like the edge of a storm,
Breaking upon the silence.

But it was just love,
And I wasn’t brave.
And it was just leaving,
And it wasn’t brave.

No te he tenido mucho,
pero ya siento tu ausencia.

Mis ojos recorren calles,
buscándote en cada esquina,

Ojos que conocieron
tus mejillas
mucho antes
que mis manos
tuvieron tus caderas,
ardientes en un mar
de carne y migajas de pan.

En tu piel,
color café con leche,
me ahogaba
mientras te observaba.

Y, si somos honestos,
amor mío,
nunca te he tenido,
ni cerca, ni lejos.

Tal vez,
nunca te tendré.
Pero cuánto te anhelo.

Te llevaste
las lluvias de mayo
y trajiste
flores de loto
a lagos ya rebosantes.

Sembraste girasoles
que se alimentan
de la luz
en tu sonrisa.

Te llevaste
el dolor de mis piernas
para que pudiera andar,
vagabundo,
bajo las sombras
de la luna llena
en tu pelo.

Amor mío,
hoy te tuve cerca,
pero te fuiste,
y no sé qué hacer
con mis ojos.

I feel more at home lately
Alone and lost,
Learning, despite
The agonizing
Disappointment
I have in myself.

Every once in a while,
I look in the mirror,
Observe the body that is,
And think of what once was.
It has changed so much
In the span of you
Not being here with me.

Your absence left
A time stamp,
Like a terrible
Natural disaster,
One everyone remembers.

I should have
Hidden you,
Like a bad cut,
A self inflicted burn,
Or a cat not meant to be inside
Because you've been told for ages
You are allergic.

You’re right.
I’ve become someone
My dad would be proud of,
And the very thing
That drove my mom insane.

But she’s learned to forgive,
Left hate buried
In the back of the cabinets,
Behind clean dishes.

She smiles like sunny days.
She hugs like she’s trying
To pull me back
Into her skin
Deep into who I was
Before time, chores,
Nine to fives, broken promises,
And you.

I’ve been enjoying
wandering thrift stores,
finding clothes I never thought
I’d wear before.

Everyone rummages
through hand me downs,
worn jeans, washed-out shirts
and I rummage too,
the scent of cigarettes
lingering on my fingertips,
cheap cologne
leaving hickeys on my neck.

This city has seen me
turn into a better man,
or maybe just a man.
I hope I’ve been better.

Outside, I drive
through avenues of skyscrapers,
no left turns, only right.
I envy them,
their grandeur,
how they bask in the afternoon sun,
shiny and unbothered.

They’re cared for,
with workers dangling high,
cleaning windows
on the 9th, maybe 10th floor.
They’re proud,
unshaken.

If I were as much man
as they are skyscrapers,
maybe things would feel lighter,
easier on the shoulders.

But then again
they haven’t been loved.
Of course not.
They are no one.

And there’s where I have the advantage.

I would chase the scent of your hair
down dark, eerie alleys.
A blessing, perhaps a curse,
if you were there
standing idle,
waiting for me to reach the end of your trace.

I would look up, breathless,
after rolling up and down
Through hills,
searching for you,
a hidden beauty among the others.

Let me kneel,
offering you my soul,
submitting my will.
I would kiss your thighs,
find all the ways to worship you.

My hands would run
through the cotton of your shirts,
seeking refuge underneath
defrosting in the campfire of your hips.

I would dance for rain
around the beauty marks of your body,
planting seeds of kisses,
waiting for a downpour.

Let me be drenched
in all that is you
completely, sorely
you.

I held you
tightly,
on top of an
eight-story parking lot,
right after a cigarette
and a long walk
down the bayou.

A city so similar,
yet so different
from our own,
the smell of desire
checking corners,
slipping through museum corridors,
obsessed with
uncentering paintings
drawn long before
you and me.

Before we leave,
to return to the mundane,
I perch a kiss,
so unnecessary,
but so needed.

Flowers start blooming,
first between cracks in the pavement,
then in the hollow of my chest.
Their roots stretch inward,
clinging to all that
once felt barren.

Petals unfurl
in places I thought
were long forgotten
soft violets behind my ribs,
sunflowers tracing
the outline of your smile.
Each bloom carries
the weight of us,
fragile, fleeting,
but alive.

I'm at that diner again,
sitting by myself
in a corner booth,
analyzing, observing,
thinking about this broken girl
I knew for a little while.

Her dad is dying
In the hospital,
Cirrhosis,
another tormented soul.
I'm glad I haven’t fallen
that deep,
but I see the appeal.

I told her
I can’t be friends
with her anymore.
I isolate when
things get difficult,
and I’m starting to notice
the walls,
having too many
late night drives.

Life has been hard
on her, on all of us.
I hope she finds peace
outside the bottle.

I only enjoy things
when they happen organically now
bars, new drinks,
a warm hug,
waking up
without the alarm.

Nostalgia and melancholy
what a heavy burden,
to carry a weighted heart.
But my arms are getting stronger,
learning to grip,
to lift,
to cradle it with grace.

I don’t know who to thank,
but I’m grateful.

God, I walked down
The whole neighborhood
Today in search of you,

I window shopped
Through people's houses,

Buying nothing
But hope and
Christmas spirit.

I finally reached
The place they say
Your soul resides.

Sat down and had
A conversation
With myself

It sounded more
Like an argument.
I felt out of place.

I don’t think you
Were present there,

Maybe more
In the sniff
Of my cold nose,

Or the reflection
Of holiday lights
On puddles in the street
Warm light bending
Across cold water.

The frost on my breath
Lingered longer
Than your presence did.

Maybe you’re not
In sanctuaries or sermons,
But in the faint glow
Of string lights
Through fire place windows,

Or in the sudden warmth
Of a stranger’s smile
The kind that disappears
As quickly as it came.

Still, the cold crept in,
Needling through my jacket
As I walked back home,
Hands empty.

What a scam.

Oh, little
Prisoner of
Moments
And the
Materialistic,
Misled
And
Misunderstood,
When will
You find your
Own way?
Be late on rent,
Flip tables,
Argue with
The ones
Who mistreat
You.
Little one,
Things will
Be okay.