I think what Icarus forgot
Was that the sun was never his to touch,
Blinding and beautiful as it was.
Yet he reached anyway--
Doesn’t that remind you of something?

the average human
describes their heartbeat
as a thud-thud or a few
rough pats to the chest.

i fall asleep with my ear
pressed up against your
chest. all i can hear is the
echo of a captain yelling,
"let me sink...let me sink..."
i ask you how you would
describe your heartbeat,
you point to the ship
in the bottle mounted on
your father's bookshelf
& faintly say
"the glass bottle keeps the
ship from sinking, completely
blocking out the captain's wish
to learn how to breathe
underwater because air just
isn't doing its job with keeping
him alive."

your break up letter to me
went a little something like;

"you were built in the fire,
stop acting like you burn in it.
you were never made to be fragile,
you were never made to be my glass."

my plead for you to stay
went a little something like;

(20) Missed Calls

your final goodbye
went a little something like;

a thud thud to the pavement.

& my final goodbye was
cracking open a bottle on your
headstone & standing in the sea
with the water rising up to
my knees, with a small ship in
the palm of my hand, a dunk
underneath the tide & a faint
whisper, *"breathe."

selfish
that’s what they call our generation
they say that phones and computers are taking away our ability to love
our ability to care
and maybe that’s true
because 20 years ago if i said i needed help
i would say it and not tweet it
hoping someone would read it
i would look you straight in the face and say
help me
and you would unless
you didn’t believe me
but this poem isn’t about me
this is about every kid who has called out for help
only to be told they just crave attention
that the cuts on their arms are
selfish
the kids who feel like no one is listening
to the point where they need ropes around their
necks to silence themselves just a little bit more
and then call them
selfish
for trying to escape a world that didn’t care
but did anyone ever stop to think that we were the selfish ones?
earlier i said that this poem wasn’t about me
but now it is
because this is my apology to you
because for some reason i read those scars
as attention seeking and romanticized
i thought that there were no real warning signs
because nowadays it seems cool to cut
self harm is a joke and there’s no real validity
i’m sorry i didn’t tell someone
i’m sorry for the people that i didn’t even notice
i’m sorry for being so
selfish.

Home is a red-shuttered house with over-
grown hosta plants, sold to a Chinese couple
whose translator loved our hummingbird
feeders and the way the house faced East.
We had a swimming pool, frog pond, two
pink bikes and matching helmets--mismatched
childhood memories nine years behind me--

we moved to a ranch, where I painted my room
the color soft, baby grass fighting through
wintergreen fertilizer, the kind my father
scattered over our front lawn, hoping to grow
something above the underground spring
flooding muddy, brown, saturated as we
became when my mother remembered her
locked-away childhood, my father broke
his back, my sister succumbed to self-blame,

and I cleaned up after it all. Our ranch holds
these events in its powder-blue walls, creaks
at night and wakes me from a dream repeating
nine times over--where I stand inside that red-
shuttered house, beside an eleven-year-old
me with honey hair bleached from too much
sunlight, speaking softly: you’re almost home.

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

Fourteen years ago when I held you in my arms, it seemed surreal. So fragile you were and like a tiny doll. Only God knows how much I miss being able to pick you up and hug you tightly close to my heart whenever I feel depressed.
And yet I love you now all the more. You are so special to me and always shall be. Our family has shared so many joys and so much heartbreak through the swiftly passing years.
You are sunshine and daybreak and iridescent rainbow hues.
The baby has been replaced with a very special friend.


Happy Birthday Sweet Daughter!


Much Love,
From Your Mother