Deep breath in.
Wait.
Listen to the floorboards moving gently in their slumber.
Focus on the slowly spinning ceiling fan,
as it matches the hum of the insects outside.
I know your hands are shaking for reasons
other than the cold room you’re in.
Concentrate on them.
Each finger counts the things that are
beautiful in you, and you are a radiant polydactyl.
No matter how it feels right now,
I promise you that you’re not alone.
Even the sun sent moonlight to grace you while it’s sleeping.
You will be okay.
Please wait.
I know how far you’ve come, and how far you have left to go.
You will get there. Tonight will not break you.
Because you are enough.
You are the abandoned lot outside my house,
with vegetation bursting through rusted fences.
Pushing up flowers through cracks in concrete,
reaching for vibrant sunlight.
You might be easily overlooked sometimes
but you sustain life even in the darkest places.
You are enough.
I don’t have things all figured out, and I know you don’t either.
That’s okay.
Just repeat after me:
“I am enough."
Deep breath out.

I used to hate my middle name,
until the first time I heard you say it.
It slipped out from behind your lips
like a leaf caught in a gentle Fall breeze.
It seemed to fit perfectly right between
my first name and three other words
I’ll never say to you again.
It lived inside your mouth,
(I guess I did too)
and it (I) never felt safer anywhere else.
And when I lost you I hated it for a while.
I hated when I heard people say it,
because those parts of me only belonged to you
for such a long time.
But now I’m okay.
Because it’s a part of me,
and I think you always will be too,
even though my names not yours to keep
anymore.

I am imploding.
The paint drips off the walls.
Every part of me folds onto itself.
The ground is a rumble strip.
I am fractaling inward.
The skin of the earth crystallizes.
I am eternities splayed forcefully.
The rain continues to fall up.

I swear things will get better.
Even skinned knees and scraped palms
take some time to heal.
And you are chiseled marble,
sculpted into something lovely.
Stronger than diamonds,
and more beautiful too.
Your eyes reflect hardened obsidian,
birthed from flowing fire itself.
You might still be in pieces,
but you will be rebuilt.
And I will help.
So please, let me handle your scars.
I want to know them inside and out.
I promise I’ll be gentle, I know how tender they can be.
I am well trained in unsettled regrets after midnight,
and fluent in the language of comforting silence.
I know each jagged ridge holds so much you’ve lost
or tried to gain.
I know how much they mean to you.
I promise I’ll be gentle.

We were ledge-sitters.

We understood why birds perch themselves on penthouse patio rails

And why airplanes sigh with breaths of relief when they are defying gravity.

We would hold the crooked hems of our dresses while we climbed metal stairs like mountains.

The urge for heightened perception of depths, distances, and the disarranged built in us like skyscrapers we hung ourselves over.