The world didn’t know what to do with his smile.
It was brighter than even the sun, and the world couldn’t contain it.
He gave it to her, but it shined too bright for her eyes, and she dropped it,
leaving him alone to pick up the pieces-
      That's when I met him

Fresh cut flowers–
Bundles of baby’s breath, dahlias and daisies
Hugged together in the jar on my kitchen island,
Straining to find some semblance of sun
As stars twinkle outside,
Hidden beneath the wisps and whirls
Of dancing clouds in the damp, dark sky.
Pinks and purples and whites
Joined together, because… they were pretty at the market–
Lovingly placed one by one to give each flower its moment to shine.
Fresh cut flowers sit
On counters and tables, nightstands and bookshelves,
A thoughtful, cherished, beautiful gift.
They brighten our homes and our lives and
Remind us of love and are reminders of loved ones.
A fragile, wilting, dying reminder.
Pretty for a fleeting moment in time,
Loved while they last, but lasting only long enough for us to notice
When they are gone.
A brief, fleeting season of our lives,
Our fresh cut flowers--
And our loved ones.
When those we love are gone
And our grief is not enough to remember them,
And we leave them fresh cut flowers in the hope
That they know how much we love them,
                                                                ­      Still.
How much we cherish them,
                                                Still.
How often we think of them,
                                                Still.
If grief is what is left when those we love have gone,
When they have gone
And have left a crater in our hearts
That all the fresh cut flowers in the world cannot fill,
When the weight presses in
And our hearts are trapped in our throats
With all the words we wish we could say and have them hear–
Then what happens to our fresh cut flowers?
They are fragile.
They are grief.
They are love.
They are a precious, cherished memory–
They are gone.

Give.
Give so much that you are gasping for breath, you have exhausted your muscles to the point you can’t move, give to the brink of death.
You made a promise.
Fulfill it.
Now.
Before I go on, there’s something you should know about me. I don’t go back on my word. If I give you a promise, I intend to keep it. I intend to fulfill every word I said. Making me promise, is dangerous.
Give.
Give more.
Danger.
It surrounds us like smoke; it is a living shadow in our everyday lives, in the little mundane things we do every day.
Torment.
It coils around us in the dark, and sheds its skin around us like a Basilisk. In Harry potter, the Basilisk is known for its toxic venom. We have the venom running through our veins, chasing out every chance that we might be salvaged.
Give.
Give more. It’s still not enough to just sit there while people blow each other up over a land given to them by the man who created every **** one of us.
Give.
Give until you can’t stand the pressure.
Give until you sail past the point of no return.  What are you going to do while they lose their lives because they just can’t stand to live with each other?
Can you imagine if your brother killed your sister because he just couldn’t stand to live with her anymore?
Now, let me ask you one more time. What are you going to do?
Now, don’t get stupid on me. Don’t say that you don’t know. Don’t say that you will enlist, you’ll fight beside them. That’s very noble, but now you must decide which side to stand on.
Give.
Give more.
It isn’t enough.
Give your everything, and then some.
Give me all you’ve got, and then give me that extra gallon of gas I know you’ve got stored for emergencies.
Do I look like I’m kidding?
Give me a promise. Promise me that when the times comes, when it really matters what you do, promise me that you will pray. Not some wimpy Dear God forgive me for my sins, but a real, true, from the heart, “I need you. Guide me.”
Give it the fear and the lies and the deceit and the hope and the tears you’ve shed for it, give it the maximum effort.  
Give it your soul.

I am tired of being scared to walk home in the dark-
to step outside once the sun has faded and yellow lights are barely bright enough to
light the way.
I am tired of being scared that every time I look
down or away
it will be the last time.
That every rustle in the bushes is a predator stalking their prey-
that every set of footsteps behind me is bigger sounding,
louder with every intake of breath,
and it will be the last thing I hear.
I am tired of having to carry myself with less dignity than I have,
of being stared at with less respect than I deserve,
because a man has decided that
because I have
*******
and
wide hips
it is my duty to be objectified and sexualized
like I am less than
human.
I am tired of holding my breath until I am behind my locked door,
of being afraid to take the bus when there is only one other human on it besides the bus driver and
he stares at me
the whole time, gets off at the same stop I do, tries to
walk into my building behind me,
until I tell him
with steel in my voice and iron in my spine,
"you need to leave. I haven't seen you before".
And when he looks startled,
like a deer caught in my headlights,
I get angry
because he was expecting a
scared little girl
but instead he got a
strong, resilient woman.
Because I am nothing if not
strong.
When you're a size
14
and the other girls laugh at you
when they think you
can't
see them,
when they whisper about you in the bathroom when they don't know you're there-
when you're a little girl, all of
10
and crying because you'll never be a
size 4
and those other girls,
the ones you played with on the playground not a year before
have turned against you,
laughing
and
pointing
because you hit puberty before any of them and you have
body parts
that they don't-
you have to learn to build yourself a backbone.
To build yourself a
spine of iron
and
a mouth of steel.
When the entire world has bet
against you
and the house has the game rigged,
you must stand for yourself because no one else will.
You must walk in the night
anyways,
you must keep your chin held high
and your mouth set with
defiance.
You were not built like other girls.
You were never
soft
and
pliable.
Because you were forced to forge your own path to succeed.
You do not have the luxury of being built
to fit the mold.
When they made you into what you are,
when they shaped your confidence with their
words,
sharper than scalpels and hurting
just as much,
they tried to
break
you.
But you-me-
we are not easily broken.
Because we have a
mouth made of steel
and a backbone made of iron
and though their words still sting,
their words still hurt,
you have built yourself an armor
to defend.
It is coated in wax so their words slide right off,
it is made of titanium so their weapons will never hit their marks.
Even still,
my heart races when I walk alone at night,
my mind whirls and my world tilts when I see
a man
walking towards me in the dark.
It does not matter, in this moment, that I was
reborn
through trial by fire,
It does not matter that I
survived
against all odds.
That fear sits like a stone in my stomach,
weighing me down and freezing my muscles.
It does not stop when he walks by and nothing happens.
It is the fear that keeps me rooted to the spot.
I should not be
paralyzed
by this irrational fear.
This fear, with such a wicked face-
not born by experience,
but born by
statistics
and the fact that I am a
woman.
Why is it that we are trained to
throw stones
against each other?
Why is it that even as
children
we feel a primal desire to shove one another down
and hold each other by the throat,
as if we are
feral wolves
poised to attack?
We are the only thing standing between the world we live in now,
and
change.
It is only if we stop stabbing each other in the
back
that anything will happen.
It is only when we truly
believe
in each other that the world will
believe
in us too.
And maybe, if we do that?
Our little girls will not feel
my fear
when they walk alone in the dark.
Maybe our little girls will never be
paralyzed
when a man walks past them on a dimly lit sidewalk.
Maybe our little girls will not need to build such extreme
armors to keep the
hurt
out.
Maybe our little girls
will have a chance that they do not need to
fight
to be given.