To be loved by me  
is like being held underwater  
and expected to learn how to breathe.  

I don’t feel like I’m from here—  
from this planet.  
To love me is inhuman.  

I’m a creature of the night.  
Don’t get too close,  
or you might cause me a fright.  
But if you get just close enough,  
we can have conversations  
that last all night.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

You lose yourself in me.  
I lose myself in you.  
It’s not just a pattern—  
it’s painted in the stars above,  
the ground below.  
You know we’ve all seen this show.  

I either make landfall  
like a hurricane,  
or like the rain  
that was supposed to come today  
but never bothered to show its face.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

It’s not that I’m unlovable…  
It’s that I might be intoxicating.  
And you know how it goes  
with toxic things:  
you either can’t put them down,  
or you know better  
than to ever pick them up.  

To be loved by me  
is like being drowned…

But what if I’ve never been those extremes?  
What if that’s just how you’ve chosen to see me?  
What if loving me is not like drowning?  
What if I’ve just been watering your seeds?  
What if we look between the stars and the ground?  

To be loved by me
Is like being drowned?

Is there a different story to be found—  
waiting to be painted  
by someone who can see  
both the stars above  
and the roots beneath the tree?

Dear seven year old,
Yes, there is a monster
But it’s not under your bed

The monster is in your head
But maybe it’s not even a monster
Maybe it’s just buried pain
Because they told you not to cry

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you should keep crying
Otherwise the tears will build up and flood your insides

The tears do not care for being stuck
They need to be released
Into the stars

Dear seven year old,
Yes, your plea for better times are being heard by the stars
They always will
Keep wishing on them

Wish on 11:11 too
Because to wish is to know what you want
And knowing what you want
Telling it
Makes it so much more likely to happen

Dear seven year old,
Yes, you still feel like the kid sitting under the slide and just observing life
And you’ve come to appreciate it

Observing, looking, watching
Make all the difference
Almost as much as writing

Dear seven year old,
Write.

Just live like a bus

driver, all the diversions --


then become the route.