No matter how many times I'm called beautiful
or pretty, of gorgeous, or any other comment,
I will always cry when I hear the name
You try to call me adoringly...

It is dead.
I bury it here
In the words.
I write its tombstone.

Brave
written January 20th, 2021

What is it like
to see the world
through your eyes?
to actually
live
in the world
the way you do?

I ask you, green beret and swat,
about your experience of fear,
and we are so different
you don't even understand my question.
"It's not brave to jump out of planes
if you aren't afraid of it," you say.

(A small voice inside me asks
does that make me brave?
Because I am afraid all the time,
or is it only what you accomplish
in spite of being afraid
that counts as bravery?)

You face the world head on
walk through heaven and hell,
air and water part for you
and you know that they will.

What is it like
to own the world like that,
to see the world
and not be afraid?

You know, life hasn't been kind.
And now I am too tired to try.
To lay in bed and slip into your eyes.
To remember the taste of lips and cry.
Live enough to realize that I wanna die.