here we are.
and i don't know if we understand
the power of that,
if we understand
the wonder,
the odds,
the millions of seconds
and everything that had to happen
for us to be here.
here we are,
we are walking miracles,
we are breathing art,
we are glory and stars
and grace
living in a house of bones and flesh.

if you think
love is
someone else
if you think
love is
quoting poetry
if you think
love is
flowers on valentine's day
think again.
if you think
love is
waiting for someone to see you
if you think
love is
a kiss
if you think
love is
only there when you are good
think again.
love is
you.
love is
writing love letters and poems to yourself.
love is growing flowers on your garden.
love is seeing and knowing yourself.
love is not a kiss
and love isn't only there when you are good.
love sees you and your brokenness
and love loves it
and love loves you
and love is you.

we never tire of hoping,
you and i.
"if not today, then tomorrow. and if not tomorrow, then the next day,"
we tell ourselves.
we like to play games with hope
and we always let her win.

this is more than a song.
this is more than poetry.
this is my heart.
every day i break it
turn its pieces into words
that will make the pieces of your broken heart
put themselves back together.

who would speak up for love
if not the poets.

when they tell you
"go look for love,"
look for it first
inside you.
it will be
(most certainly)
knocking at the door of your heart.
(your heartbeat.)
let it in.
it will run through every room inside
moving things around
untangling the messes you've made
making room.
it will change you.
you might not recognize yourself.
it will bring light to your eyes,
brighten your smile,
redden your cheeks.
it will teach you to make art.
to sing and write poetry and dabble in painting.
it will teach you to like you,
to love you,
the wonder that you are.
you'll know what love looks like
now that it's inside you.

i straightened my hair today
for the first time in three weeks.
my mother was happy
but i was not.
--
last night
she said,
i know you're an artist,
pero no andes como una loca.
don't go around looking like a crazy person.
--
i kept touching my hair today.
missing the stray curl that stayed behind my left ear.
missing the space my hair used to take up,
wild and free.
feeling smaller.
in a body that was not my own.
--
this hair, mami,
does not belong to an artist,
y no es de locas.
es mío; con él nací.
in it i carry the waves
that carry me
that carried the bones
of my ancestors all the way here.
--
these curls, mami,
they are big enough to hold me,
to hold all that i am.
they are a garden in which beauty grows.
they are rivers that lead to the ocean.