all of this.
this breathing.
this walking.
this speaking.
this writing.
all of this is here
all of this is to say
that i was here.
that i am here,
and when i am no longer here,
i still will be.
all of this
is an attempt
to not forget myself
to not let you forget me.
all of this.
this body.
this hair.
this skin.
this voice.
all of this is here.
all of this, it matters.
today
i mattered
tomorrow
i will.

i hope
that every evening
after coming home
when i look at myself in the mirror
to find a poem.
to find my curls alive,
to look at them and see the story that today told:
the times the wind kissed the strands
and the hands i love touched my head.
the times i laughed and tossed my head back,
unraveling the waves, welcoming the mess, welcoming the joy.
to find my eyes alive,
tired, maybe, but alive,
that they, too, share the story today told:
the times i closed my eyes in gratitude,
the smiles i smiled with them,
the stars and fire i keep in them,
the shine i cannot erase.
i hope
to look at myself in the mirror,
my face a giveaway
that today i was alive.

i am waiting for a poem
a poem that is waiting for me
a poem that sits on the night like a star
a poem i did not write but instead lived
i am waiting for words
words that aren’t empty
words strong enough to carry this story
words raw and meaningful and unafraid
i am waiting for answers
answers to questions
answers to life
answers to this waiting
i am waiting for love
love that makes songs out of moments
love like coffee and milk
love that heals
i am waiting
i am waiting
waiting for me.

i used to tell myself the same thing.
that maybe something was wrong with me.
that maybe love was enough for me but i was not.
i have imagined kisses a thousand times
i have dreamt of arms around my own
and i have written enough love stories for the entire world
and poems to fill books
and i questioned so much-
my beauty, my worth, my skin, my bones
and i traveled and walked away
from fear and self-doubt
towards bravery and courage,
towards knowing what i want and what i deserve
and i know love is something i cannot earn,
something that belongs to me as much as air,
that love is enough for me
and i am enough for it
and i am enough with or without it.

my mother
does not love me in poems
in songs
(the way i know how)
but she loved me in phone calls
and breakfast
and new clothes in december
she loves me in doctor's appointments
and orange juice
and prayer
(the way she knows how)
and i will love you like this too
i will love you like my mother
and i will love you like me
i will love you in poetry
in words
in forehead kisses and long hugs
i will braid the words 'you are loved' in your hair
and i will kindle the fires inside you
i will wish upon the stars in your soul
i will love you in dreams
i will love you in ways i cannot tell
but i will love you

i want to memorize you
like a poem
sing to myself
the words of your bones to sleep
know your heart
by heart
and your voice
i want to keep it on the tip of my tongue
savor it
like a memory
i do not want to forget you

inspired by e.e. cummings’s 'into the strenuous briefness’

how many hellos
has the earth heard?
how many beautiful beginnings
has she seen?
how many roses has she bloomed,
and how many of them have been gifted?
how many hellos
have given way to friendship and
love,
how many of them have turned into light?
she keeps them all,
the roses and hellos,
turns them into poems
and turns them into time,
sunrises and sunsets,
beginnings and farewells,
you and me
in between it all.