Nothing is as simple as it ever seems, and nothing ever will be.
You can say "I love you." or "you make me happy" without uttering a single word, and I think that's
the only reason anyone can make it past the age of twenty-five.
I remember being in third grade wishing I was made of steel and concrete and every other single thing that my father's knuckles couldn't break through.
I remember being young and putting conch shells to my ear because then you would hear the ocean, and I remember doing the same to my grandfather's grave, and how his marble tomb sounded like a hollow room with smoke rising upwards through the floorboards, and I see how even at our composition, we are flooded with what we cannot turn away from.
I see the power of finding more in things that you don't really understand, and that even something as soft as a voice can be my sweet tooth.  
I was once told that people are exactly what they allow themselves to be, and are defined by the things that they were given, yet decide to change.
So just know that I feel the time passing like wind sliding down my back, and I am carving softer ways to love you,
I am trying less to know you and more to know why.

Because the way tires leave blisters on the skin of the road when they leave too quickly, is the same way goodbyes scrape arms.
It is easy to devalue our breath, when we live in a world filled with flame, and coal, and ice which are not supposed to be beautiful, but despite their purpose, they find their ways to be.
It takes courage to pray to someone knowing that gravity can ****** your words from the air and bring them right back down to the soles of your feet.
So when we question things like Heaven and wonder if that big blue sky is another bruise on someone else's Mother's arm, we find much more than answers.
We find that people are nothing extra, they are only themselves, some simply more than others.
We are more afraid of a silent and a hushed love than we could ever be of one that oozes too many words, so I will continue quieting the world until it is time to listen.
So yes,
hell exists.
But I refuse to believe it is a place, and as far as I am concerned it is a moment.
It may be one moment or millions of them, but hell is real once you understand that the people who are supposed to love you like bandages that cover burn marks, seem to be pretty good at starting fires when no one is looking.
These are just things I was thinking about on the car ride home after I ran into your Mother in the grocery store.
She said you still walk like there is sand in your shoes, and I realized that being in places isn't the same living in them.
We have bad habits of getting up and taking a few steps toward someone just to say we were there, and I hope you are guilty of
loving me from within the distance.

You have to fight for everything, even yourself.
Nothing was ever built for weak people.
But you are precious.
You are all the things I never believed in but happened anyway.
You are all the last thoughts of the last moments of someone's life. All I ask is that you always find your way home like you lose everything except for this.
Remember that wind is a language, like everything else, and every time you meet a new person you are discovering how to believe in people. And where we live, there is a lot of wind.
So in effect, I believe War is another way of saying I love something so much that I can't stop breaking whatever makes it sad.
And where we live, there is a lot of war.  
And courage is the form we take when we become someone else's second chance.
Remember that Earth is cold, that the world is a scary place to live, but ask yourself what the world is made of.
We all bleed the same amount, and we forget that if you ask for freedom then you have already lost it.
That sometimes running and leaving and going does not always take you somewhere else, and that in order to keep things, sometimes we have to lose them.

I visited your grave the other day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't tell you how I was doing.
I assumed you're doing fine, or at least I'd like to think so.
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've stopped believing in Heaven,
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've become the soil surrounding your casket.
I sat there in silence while my fingers went numb and I swear for a second
I could feel my soul sinking into the ground trying to shake you awake,
To tell you I need you. To tell you I haven't made progress. I'm killing everyone around me.
I wanted you to wake up for just ten minutes. I wanted to tell you everything I haven't been able to write nor say out loud.
I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I wanted you to tuck my hair behind my ear
and melt these frozen tears off my cheeks and look me straight in the eyes to tell me that I'm not.
I wanted to sit there in your arms and scream,
Because every time I try screaming, I  fear that I'll awaken parts of me that are meant to stay unconscious.
But I've been meaning to think about myself for a second and-
I'VE BEEN SPENDING RESTLESS NIGHTS CLENCHING MY FISTS AROUND MY BEDSHEETS,
AND DIGGING MY FINGERNAILS INTO MY HANDS BECAUSE I'VE FOUND AN ADDICTION THAT I CANNOT TAME,
THE SIGHT OF BLOOD DOESN'T BOTHER ME THE WAY IT USED TO.
I'VE STARTED DOING THINGS TO FORGET.
I'VE STARTED LIGHTING PLANTS ON FIRE TO GET SOME SORT OF HIGH OUT OF LIVING.
I'VE STARTED BECOMING THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU TOLD ME NEVER TO BE.
MY PALMS ARE THE EYES OF HURRICANES AND DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH,
WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE THEY NEVER SAW THE TREMBLING IN THE FIRST PLACE?
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SANITY IS AND I DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME
MY HEAD WAS SILENT.
IT'S LONELY YOU KNOW, HAVING FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE TALK TO YOU AT ONCE IN BETWEEN YOUR EARS.
I MET SOMEONE THAT LIVES A BORDERLINE AWAY BUT STILL MANAGES TO SIT
ON MY PORCH AND WAIT FOR ME TO LET HIM IN.
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING DINNER TABLES WITHOUT PUSHING MY CHAIR IN FIRST,
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING PEOPLE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.
I FEEL TOO FULL. I FEEL TO FULL OF FLAMES BURNING DOWN EVERY LAST CITY IN MY BODY,
I FEEL EMPTY. I FEEL LIKE IT'S SUNDAY MORNING AND I'VE POURED MY FATHER A BOWL OF CEREAL JUST TO FIND OUT WE'RE OUT OF MILK.
PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN TO, PLEASE DON'T HUR-
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of.
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine.
Some days I am full of constant negativity and feel the need to rip grass out from the earth
and throw China cabinets to the floor to say that nothing stays pure forever.
I stopped thinking about myself for a second.
I sat at your grave and said nothing.
I was going to tell you all of this but I couldn't bare to tell you I stopped believing in Heaven.
The only time I ever saw you smile was on Sunday mornings.

This is not a love letter, but I have to get something off my chest since it seems you have decided to make a home out of me.

You live in my heart and my head, and hopefully one day in my hands.

You have taken down the boards I had blocking the sun, and you have dusted off the blinds. I think you were just trying to prove to me that you can make light touch even the darkest corners of me.

You have painted over my stained walls from past lovers. I hope you cover every inch of me with orange, I want to be your favorite color.

You have fixed my broken pipes and all the shattered lights and I am breathing again. You have fixed every broken floorboard and I promise I will not let you fall through.

You have patched up my roof and weather-proofed me, and I swear I will keep you safe from any storm that comes your way.

You have dug up the dead flowers in my garden. You have trimmed my dead leaves, but please remember to water me.

You have created a home out of me and I hope you never move away. I promise the neighbors are nice and the neighborhood is safe.

If you ever plan to leave please just burn me down, I don't need any owner other than you.