I made chicken soup in August.

The timing is terrible, but
you should still try a bowl.

When you go home,
tell your parents what I said:

You look better
in a prom dress
then you ever could
in a wedding gown.

Let's bury this corpse
underneath a church
hearse and all.

If you steal a carnation
to hang like an icicle
in your bedroom,
I'll never tell a soul.

Our war kept us safe
from the dungeons
of autonomous thought.

Now every time I step outside,
my summer skin feels like winter.

The old metaphor rings
too true as I think of friends
lost to the lives they lived.

Brave words ****** out of
young lungs and spoken before
they ever had the chance.

Beautiful young faces glow in pictures,
like rookie-year baseball cards,
capturing untold potential.

Not a bad thing, some will say --

“to die before growing old”
“to stay beautiful forever”
“to live such a full life in so few years”

-- but still, best friends cry,

eyeballs turn to cracked glass,
and cotton-candy hearts callus.

Because they can never leave us the right way.

So I  maintain the lemonade nights
and starshine days in my brain.

Thanks to Angels,

I treat each magical step
like bold beams of light
shot out of the dreams
we strive to make right.

between hugs and struggles
that tempt our inevitable fate,

let me tell you,
“I love you”,
before it’s  too late.

I hate my hands.
I'd love to write about it,
but every time I try,
they always **** it up.