Up to the trees I go,
Further north where fresh water flows.
Travel preparations with my heart aching,
Home is where I’m free,
Left alone just to be.
Not in this gloomy place,
Not within this heat wave.
Like a pioneer,
I pack my bags,
Leaving behind the places I know,
In search of the places,
Where I’ll grow.

Sometimes i sit next the the edge,
an old radio next to me.
As i lie down on my sledge,
the radio sings to me.

Sings me songs of love,
like a chirping little dove.
Or cries a tale of sorrow,
my eyes trailing a river till the morrow.

But then...
skies of grey rolled in.
Thunder booms across the sky.
haze and fog clouds my gaze.

And the radio?
all i can hear from it is static.

ME:
Hello?
Hello? Can you still play?
Can you still give me the words that flow easily out of your head?
Can you still reach me?
Hello???

darling,
it hurts too much
to watch
as you chase
someone else's dream,
as they chase
someone else's dream,
and no one's
chasing their own.

darling,
it hurts too much
to watch
you pass through
the valleys of life,
as the shadows
stretch further
with every step,
and the valley
stretches too.

darling,
it hurts too much
to hear you
say to me,
in that crystalline voice
that warms my heart,
"the only way
is through",
while I stare back
and whisper to you
"the only way
is through".

darling,
it hurts too much
to look up
and face the sunlight
with eyes
that've only
tasted the dark.

darling,
you love
sunlight.

I started wearing a rubber band
Around my wrist
So I can send slicing pain
Through my arm when I didn’t feel okay
My wrist is swollen
White welts
But they won’t scar
That makes it okay

Carrying my truth.
I stand by my views,
watching through
my weakening gaze.

After a raging storm,
making peace with myself,
I vanish into the air,
my convictions fold with me.

Without simple answers,
wearing the new lens,
I see another world:
not clearer,
not wiser,
not safer,
…
just slightly shifted.

It takes one look into your eyes,
and I can tell you're not alright.
The words you don't say aloud
lay heavy on your chest at night.
Every time you cry
I wish I was allowed
to give you a reason why,
a will to live, a will to fight.
I want you to be alright.

It took one look into your eyes
to know you would rise
high into the sky
after you said your last goodbye.

It didn’t happen.
But it could have.

And that “could”
  still glows
    in the dark of me.

We never kissed.
But there was a second
 when your breath
 found mine
  not touching,
  just measuring the space
  where it might.

That second
  lasted longer
  than entire nights.

We didn’t say it.
But the air between us
  knew.
Not the meaning,
  but the weight.

And maybe
that’s the truest kind of intimacy -
the one that doesn’t insist,
  just lingers.

What didn’t unfold
  still forms me.
Not as memory,
but as shape.

A bend in how I move.
A shadow I do not fear.
A pause
  I’ve learned to live inside.

You don’t have to invent it.
You never did.

The shape,
the sound,
the word -
they already exist
somewhere between breath and shadow.

You are not the maker.
You are the listening.
The soft animal that lets it pass through
  without tightening.

If it comes,
let it.
If it leaves,
don’t chase it.

You are not here
to hold it forever.
Only to host
  its becoming.

When your hands shake,
when nothing feels certain,
that may be the exact moment
you’re finally transparent enough
  to carry something real.

Don’t fill the silence too quickly.
Don’t rush to say it right.

Let it move
  through the ribcage,
    through the spine,
      through the wrist
like wind
         learning your name.

The horror on my face
when I saw your furrowed brows,
concentrated on the object in hand.
The object I gave to you,
knowing you would take care of it.

You look up to me sheepishly,
the look of guilt on your face.
That guilt transferred over to me,
but its power multiplied and strengthened,
into a scribble of black in my chest,
tangled and knotted together
making it harder for me to breathe.

I walked over to you,
hoping that this isn't true
as the knots of black thread began to tangle more,
into a huge knotted ball.

I took what I gave to you,
willing my shaky hands to mend it,
but no use...
The tangle of thread rises,
creeping its way up my throat
to behind my eyes, begging to be released,
to flow down my cheek.
But I resisted, for if I let it loose
then what...?

Yet the ball of thread grows,
somehow producing thorns.
Thorns that pierce my skin,
almost proding from the inside out.

For the object I gave you
was never mine to begin with.
Like you, I was entrusted with it.
Now we both face the same consequences,
of shame,
of guilt,
and the trust we gained
                                               b
                                                      r
       ­                                                      o
        ­                                                       ­       k
                                                        ­      ­                e
                                         ­                                             n  
Now I lie here,
heart trembling,
hand shaking,
beads of sweet falling down my head.
Waiting
for the punishment that I'll receive.

A punishment for something out of my control,
out of yours too.
But I know it's not your fault.

A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.