You were worth making art out of melodic words, weren't you?
But somehow I couldn't stop writing about the aftermath of someone's storm.
And for that, I am truly sorry.

I remember you were that band guy who so beautifully struck drums
that even my inexpressive veins danced at every beat,
that even my defensive walls collapsed,
that even my unreadable emotion became everybody's open book—
a sweet, tragic thing: these episodes never happened.

You were almost that answer every mad mind so long desired.
I almost stopped mastering the art of stomping on people's hearts before they do.
I almost dug a burial ground for the corpses of my
pouring-love-out-to-someone-who-only-knows-how-to-spit-it-back­­-out.

What I am sure about is this:
I never want to feel it again.
I can only look at another tombstone with your name engraved on it
and smell the scent of flowers I stole from some rotten body,
while the wind plays symphonies with the endless,
"Almosssst,
almossst,
almosst,
almost."

there once was a girl who broke promises like tea glasses. It wasn't hard, really. just a little too much heat, too much pressure. maybe she just didn't pay attention, until there were tea glasses shattered all over the floor.
     but one day the girl worried that someone would see all that broken glass and start to wonder, so she grabbed fistfuls of the mess and she swallowed it all down down down where no one could ever see. and the jagged shards tore at her insides, shredded her gut into ****** ribbons, bedazzled her stomach lining like stars.
     the girl smiled and bled and broke more promises and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. until one day those pretty tea glass promises ripped her open and everyone could see her mistakes spill out of her as she bled out on the floor.

This is for a girl whose name means light,
Who fights every day of her life to beat the gravity of depression,
Whose dearest pastime is turning everyone she encounters to poetry,
Who’s never stopped looking for fairies or shaking glitter over everything,
Who is tall in the flesh and tall in the heart; love overflowing,
Who aspires to be ironclad but always tender,
Who knows too much about bruised innocence and precious things ripped away,
Who can never get enough of walks in the wind and rain—all of that pulsing sensation, all of that alive-alive-alive,
Who salutes Eve each time her teeth break the skin of an apple,
Who is thoroughly in love,
Who has taught herself to bleed out with dignity,
Whose defiance could halt the turn of the earth,
Who grew up on bare feet, free will, and the softest joy imaginable,
Who would die for justice,
Whose soul is warm and messy and unfurling,
Who has a family of artists living in her head [Alcott scribbling in the cerebral cortex, Van Gogh mixing pigments near the frontal lobe, Ginsberg clacking at his typewriter beside the cerebellum],
Who dreams of avenging the marginalized,
Whose arsenal includes sturdy black boots and neon strength,
Who is ruthless yet sentimental beyond belief,
Who slipped into the world with a sweetness she’s never really lost,
Who lives like she writes like she laughs like she argues like she loves, with heat and certainty and unending vibrance.
This is for myself.