I wrote a letter to my 12-year-old self and
It went something along the lines of
“Love Yourself”
but counselling office posters read the same
things so I ripped it up.

See, I used to think that I could fly into the
Sun and it would feel like a warm hug, nothing
So drastic as incineration

Then I saw what could happen to pallid skin on
a hot day and my mindset changed.

I wrote a letter to my 10-year-old self and it
Was more like a warning,

(a red light is flashing, don’t fly into that tower)

Don’t let yourself become cynical
Don’t forget to call your grandmother
Don’t get so caught up in making money that
You’ve forgotten what it means to be a kid

You should be doing loop-the-loops around
That tower,
Roll upside-down, see your city like a bird.

Don red, bleach your apron, do something
Radical to it.

This has become the unsung song of your life

You’ve forgotten to live.

I'm not a real person anymore,

You made me fake.

The sun is shining
but it's raining

on your face,
down your neck,
through your socks,
through your skin.

It chills your heart
and makes you glad.

You look up.
The sun,
the clouds,
the snowflake rain.

Pink gumboots,
striped jackets,
dull canopies.

People stare
as you stop and wonder
how people could hide

from this pleasure
which makes them cold,
makes them see
the amazement
of sun and rain
together

creating beauty
in a sunshower.

I don't believe in God.

I believe in dark skinned girls
That scream Leviticus at the two
Teenagers on my second bus home.

I believe in my mother heaving
Her woes while my father
Tells me to change the channel and
Stop being so bad at life, as though
Theres a syllabus I never studied which
Teaches you that the expensive apples
Are the sweetest and the 60c ones
Will leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

I believe that you can be bad at math
But good at physics because you know
That a stone thrown from x will weigh c
And therefore get to y within k amount
Of time.
Y being you and c being me, naturally.

I believe that chewing on foil is bad
For your mouth but is a stress reliever
For all the times that your work has
Been ripped up and then thrown
Back at your face, as if symbolising
Your entire eduction.

I believe that there is a light at the
End of this tunnel but you've got to
Hold my hand while we feel the walls
For a switch.

Click.

I am a mirrored twin, the nostalgic one.

And I could hand you a sermon on kindness
But you wouldn't want it because
I've seen you kick down young children and grown men
With words and clenched fists,
Holding on to the things that you've always known.

You could try to strip away the skin to find out what's inside and
I don't know what you were expecting
Since my lungs could be your lungs,
Or my liver the same as yours, even.
We bleed the same blood from the same wounds
And my heart beats at the same tempo as yours.

I suppose I should thank you for shaping me,
Giving me my leather skin,
My ******, word-worn heart.

Oh, daddy.
Oh, classmates of mine.
Oh, teachers that never cared.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I fall in love with words.

Words written by a pen
or a pencil
or by fingertips on frosted glass.

The soft curve of an 'a' is
Almost as enticing as naked hips.
The smell of ink on aged paper
Is almost as ****** as a
Hard body in my sheets.

Spoken words could never be
As alluring as the ones that
Have been whispered into a heart
By a spread of fingers on skin.

Give me your words and I'll
Give you my heart.

Write them down for me.

I went to a party on Saturday night,
one of those inane get-togethers
for so-and-so who came back from
that place that they went.
Though of course,
it's only an excuse to get drunk since
someone scored some cheap, ******
beer from an older sibling or whoever.

I spent about 45 minutes leaning
against some sticky couch before
I saw you standing in a corner, stupidly
close to the speakers and you were
wearing a hessian scarf that had to be
scraping your blemished neck, but
you didn't seem fazed by it at all.

It's probably the new trend like last
week it was platform sneakers that only
the Flinders Street Steps would ever
wear. Sometimes I imagine a conversation
with one of those kids, though it never
gets past them glaring at me.

I nodded, you nodded
(this means we're now friends)
and passed you a cup of some
****-beer that I'm sure you didn't want but
you probably just took it to avoid saying
no and making this more awkward.

I asked you what school you went to and
you replied with some made-up name
that was probably indigenous or something
since a bunch of old, white preachers
didn't want to offend anyone.

You shrugged.

You asked me a question and I countered
it until it became some kind of 20
questions tennis, minus the ***** secrets
but still adequately laced with teenage
awkward. You told me you wrote poetry
and I laughed saying, "Doesn't everybody?"

I realise now that I'm a little hypocritical.

Prodigies, poets, peacemakers:
These are the names we were given before
Avery or Jaxson or Ahlivea
(because ***** the traditional names).
Why couldn't Ruth or Peter or Hester
fulfil these standards for us? I asked you this.

You just shrugged again.

I looked around the stupidly cramped room,
watched some girls pull down their skirts
(for decency, of course),
watched some boys light up their spliffs and
fall over their post-pubescent yeti feet.
I pointed this out; you just nodded and drank.

I noticed the school captain from last year
passed out on the sticky couch.
We talked about him for a little and you said
he got into law at that fancy university in the city
but he shows up to all of his classes completely
hammered. He still manages to hold a 3.5 GPA.

Eventually, we descended into silence
and turned to our phones,
as is the apparent course of action and the
easiest out to a conversation with someone,

Since none of us know better.

You're always asking me why I keep the receipts

From every place we visit even if it's only a

Quick pit-stop at the Safeway where you used to work,

And I won't tell you why because you'd laugh

At me and remind me how silly romance is

Because I know you found that movie ticket with

The blue eyes sketched between the price and the

Title. And I know that you tossed it out the window telling

Me that the cute ticket officer's eyes were brown, not

The same colour as the stormy oceans I see

Crashing below your eyelashes on the nights when you

Won't tell me what your father said to you and that I

Found out from your brother that your grandmother died

The same day that you met me and that's why

You won't talk about her even though you know I can sympathise.

You always ask me why I write down your angry

Words but I can't tell you that it's because it's those

Moments when I know you're the most bare, even when

We're naked.  And I also know the reasons why

After we finish, you always hide beneath the sheet

As though you're afraid I'll see the crescent-moon

Scar on your left hip that you will never tell me

What it's from.

I guess we all have reasons for our secrets but

Why would the world keep spinning in its unsung persistence

If we knew everything about it?

We listened to that song like it was our only solitude,

Though my only solitude was your voice

The way you belted out the lyrics like a protest

And made sense to those that didn't understand.

Would you know how many times I've tried

But failed always to listen to that song.

My solitude has become a mirage

Or a dream not quite forgotten.

Were you here and not in a pit

Would those words be sung again.

For now I'll let it be as it is:

The sketchy record to a broken memory,

And a time in which our lives were living.

You are a dream in which I'm still dreaming,

So carry on and carry on.

Did I ever tell you that I miss you?
That now when the sun shines, I can't feel its warmth
Because I'm quite sure that you were the sun for me
My own bright star.

I could romanticise the constellations for you,
I really could.
But you of all people know that I was never a
Romantic.
Instead of love letters I'd give you stutters
And instead of flowers I'd give you a crane
Made from the napkin that I used to wipe pasta
Sauce from my face.

Unsurprising is the fact that you left without a word,
Leaving me here to write words about you and
Your arms when they held me,
Even for the briefest of moments.

Sometimes my brain tells my eyes that it was you
That passed the corner by our cafe.
But I'm still convinced that you're a dream and I'm
An insomniac not quite woken up,
Since my eyes are still half-closed.

You could be my Sirius or my Adhara,
Or even their flanks.
After all, Mirzam and Sirius were lovers-
Or siblings, I never did quite get that right.

Forgive me, gorgeous.
I lose my mind around you and talk about the
Stars as if they're your eyes.

That would indeed be the closest comparison,
After all.

Your essence is foreign to me
For I haven't ever slept before.
What are your eyes when they are not stinging?
Do they smile?
Do they brighten with excitement?
What are your eyes,
I've never seen them so red.
The blood has spilt from your veins
And seeped into your vision.
These tired, tired eyes
You were once so good to me

Give me a moment, my head is spinning

There, your heart's still in place
I'm sorry but I lost your mind.
Forgive me, maybe check your pockets?
The back seat of your car?
Hush, you'll find it soon.
Close those eyes, sweetheart.
Dream of dreaming.

It's horrible how these things keep happening accidentally.

One moment you feel that the darkness has gone away
And that there's no need to fight anymore,
But in the next second you're curled up on the floor of your
Cupboard with the door locked shut, sharing air
With the monsters hiding there,
All just trying to find some small sense of serenity.

One moment you're laughing with a coworker at the brash
Reaction of your manager and then
In the next second you're in the break room, calling up
Your old friend whom you lost in the darkness,
Begging them to cut the wire from around your throat
Make it stop hurting (your lungs are burning).

One moment you're demanding the earth, the ocean
To give you an out or some kind of answer
To why these things keep happening, why you're suffering
With this stinging boxing ring where you're in both
Corners, riling your other self up
Only to be tapped out after your first step towards the light.

"Calm before the storm"
has been on my lips ever since
you started looking at me with
disgust written all over your
face, (don't worry I'm revolting
there's no blame there) here look
how many tongues I can speak.
Are you intimidated yet? My eyes
are drawn dark to scare you
are you properly. Frightened. No?
I'll try harder, you say that too
and you look sad or angry (they're
the same thing these days) where's
my sympathy? You want me to
tell you I love you but how can I
when you slice my tongue every
time give me a chance to breathe
(let up your hold on my throat
please) this is the storm you are
the outlaw your gun is firing it
hasn't. Stopped. Stop. Please the
skin on your nose is burnt
red from my words you meant to
make me cry you changed my
blood pack for wine and now it's
thrumming in my veins these
words will never stop. Stop. They
won't stop because you keep
firing the gun. Stop. Help me stop.
Help.

I'm sorry that I'm late, Madame, but
I was in the bathroom reading
The suicide letter of the boy that
Broke his heart 4 years ago.
I remember he bought my icy-pole
On the hottest day of the year
Because I was 10¢ short and
Only in year 7. So small.
He played basketball and won
More games for our school in
Two years than it had won
In twenty.
Everyone always wondered
Why the boy that all the
Girls wanted, never dated
Until the day that they did.
I remember there being a lot
Of yelling and an ambulance
And the only bathroom stall
Roped off with crime tape.
I remember a long, white
Muscled arm dripping
Blood from a plastic stretcher.
The arm which had scored
Countless three-pointers and
Inspired the small male population
Of the school was cold,
Reaching out to me.
I tried to take his hand but
A policeman told me to back
Away. From my hero.
From my icy-pole saviour.

It's Friday night and I could pretend that I'm going to some party where
The boys are too drunk and
The girls have lost themselves in between the bathroom mirror and the bathroom floor.

Maybe the music is a bit too loud but the smoke outside should cover it up.

You might be leaning against the side of a couch or
Up against a wall with someone else-
A girl, maybe, with too long eyelashes
And hair that reeks of perfume
(I know you hate it).

I would probably walk in and change the music, do a little jig that makes people laugh but I won't remember it in the morning.

You could come over and pull me out into the biting chill of the backyard's night and tell me about the things you saw in the bathroom upstairs.

I would grab your face and kiss it all over and you'd let me because you'd be doing the same thing.

Step one, step two, step three
And it led me home.

And that was last night and I'm craving for your skin again.
Goodnight.

Grey marks the shivers and stutters that
Stop your throat from loosening,
Coughing out apology after apology.

The thin maroon excuse for warmth
Cuts into your arms and
A polo neck button placed too high
Helps the nervous cut into your
Throat, choking off words and
Well-wishes.

Look at this brand new, overpriced
And itchy navy blanket to
Wrap around your shoulders while
I bleach out your windcheater
See now, it's red.
Not quite the same as you remember
The little figures on your breast
Changed into a quill and some
Other absurdity you're not sure of
Yet.

Sit between these two red girls,
They're your angels so stop trying to
Hate them.
Give them all a chance, 9 weeks
At least because no one hates you,
You just hate this
System.

My last love compared me to the devil
                 said that I was just as dark and foreboding and that
             I'd pull out the hearts of men and keep them for my own victory.

He called himself to be the honest definition of human since

                         his last love was the kind of angel that kept her wings closed
                                                          ­                                  and to her heart.

                               And with her golden fringe and paper white skin
                                        she had a laugh like the echoing of a wind chime
                                               a body like a goddess
                                                    and when her hips stuttered-

He'd danced with the devil and handed his heart to it

And so I've kept it to myself now
And given the rest of him away for the world to have.

You do not know me.
You may never know me,
hero.

But you saved me
And I wouldn't be here
If it weren't for you,
hero.

Maybe some day
I will tell you in person
But until then
This is for you,

Letting you know
How grateful I am
That you kept me my life,
hero.

I stopped breathing last night,
dreams of weights resting on
my chest woke me flailing,  
calling for help without a voice.
In my dream we were in your room
and you were sleeping on my
chest the way that you used to.
We'd had a fight about my best friend
about how you thought that he was
in love with me just like
that barista at our café and
my scruffy coworker and just about
everyone on my train ride home.
I told you,
(I think I screamed a little)
that it wasn't possible because I had you.
You said I had a Dickinson heart
but I didn't understand your
literary references
(because by this point I was crying)
and so you kissed me and laid me
down and I woke up
suffocating.
You were sitting on my chest, darling,
grinning at me.

I almost fell in love when I
Was sad but I stopped myself
Because I thought that no one
Could ever love me back since
I wasn't going to be around for
Much longer anyway.

That was 436 days ago and I still
Can't love anyone or have them
Love me back even when I'm
Happy.

Sometimes I look at you and think
That I could love you and you
Could love my empty shell, too

But then I realised when I held
My heart in my cupped palms,
About to toss it like a bomb to
You that it would grow tacky
Over time and you wouldn't
Want it anymore.

It's cold outside but I'm
Sweating under the sun and I
Wish you were here to tell me
That my love was fine and
To hold onto my heart because
You don't need it.

I can't seem to write
Words
words
words
My head is full but my pen is dry
My hand,
the conductor,
it's shaking with anticipation
trembling
For some words
Words.
What is this?
These are my thoughts and the inkwell
I'm so inspired
**I am the inspiration

It’s that

Interlude between when you’re sad and happy

Where you aren't quite sure where exactly you are

You knew what sad meant but you don’t know what this is meant to be.


I remember when you said you were going to die.

Your throat kept closing up but it wasn’t me doing it

And then you told me you were numb.

You couldn’t feel anything.

I could cut you if I wanted

But you wouldn’t even know

You’d just watch the blood trickle out of you

Like drops of water in the morning on the windows in winter.

You told me that this is life and

What it was going to come to in the end.

I don’t think I've ever known you happy

You said you were never meant to be.

And then you laughed

And said that it sounded morbid.

But I didn't say anything

Because we knew it was true.


You keep telling me that it was a long time ago

and you’re okay now.

You say that this is the happiest you’ve ever been.

If only your tears would tell me the same thing.

I wish that you wouldn’t listen to yourself

Because that’s what is killing you.


I’ll still be here in the morning, sweetheart.

I’ll still hold your ice cold hands.

More than anything I want to make beautiful things.

Beautiful things which shock my teachers who
never gave my work much thought.

Beautiful things which confirm to my parents that I
am not a waste of years and years of upbringing.

I have already come to love myself, and it seems
only logical to make others love me the only way I
know how.

I will make make beautiful things. And they will love me.

One step forward, two steps back

There’s no winner in this game.

No champion crowned
No golden wreath
No $50 coupon to that store.

One bright light, three days black

There’s no oasis in this expanse.

No rain
No mirage
No life giving you hope.

One yippee, four pleas behind*

We’ve forgotten who needs to be saved.

Help me
Stop me
I’m so sorry.

Sirens sound, they’re calling for the hero

But the hero is not there to save you.

There is no hero.

We aren’t trying to save ourselves.

When I say that I didn't get much sleep last night,
I mean that I spent seven hours in my bed
Thinking about the way that the morning light
might play off of your skin
And the way that you would shift and snuffle
into the mattress at my first nudge
And my light breath would be against the nape
of your neck,
Breathing in your contentedness
and how happy the sun is
To be warming your shoulders up as you wake.

So no, I didn't get much sleep last night.


  *"I think I'm falling asleep
   but then all that it means is
   I'll always be dreaming of
   you."

Remember how I bought you that summer dress and you
stained my shoulder with your tears after the first time
that you realised your relationship was dying.
How I've bought you a hundred dresses after that and
burned each shirt that you stained with them.

Remember how I sat with you and made daisy chains
because I thought it would stop you from hating yourself.
How you ripped them all up afterwards and stained my chest
instead of my shoulders.

Remember how I've said goodbye so many times yet come back
the next day because I knew no one would let you cry on them.
How you tore me up like you tore those daisies and burnt those
dresses like I burnt my shirts.

Remember how you'll keep this up your sleeve, sweetheart.
How I love you as much as I hate you.

Please don't forget to bring me down with you when you go.

As the walls of Troy
came crumbling down
I wonder where it was
that you ran

I keep a small faith
that something stole you
           instead
wrenched you onto its ship
           bedded you

I have words
which taste like venom
           or a sinner’s eulogy
the way
that I can put them together
bringing rhapsodists to their knees

            and you
have a self-conviction:
           your words
are better than mine
           my words
are merely the stink
which rises
from the suburban ******* tip

you forget that we speak
            the same language
the same words
over and
            over again

I wake up in May
there is dew on the sill of the window
            culminated
from my ****** foulness

you climbed through it
             said goodbye
with a dry mouth
and a steady voice

every evening
is an odyssey for you

I was the antagonist
I wanted to flood your ship
I wanted to drown your men

you are the wise man
               the one
with the ideas
               the one
who in the end
is meant to save us all

a different you – I know it’s you
you feel the same
                same
strength in your knees
                and same
self-conviction

returned to me
and to this archaic city
at the start of May

your words are different
and now
you have a kiss
like the world is ending
and I am your final prayer

we are always searching
for a way to disappear
indefinitely
inside each other

between the walls
of a timber stead
we have cycled
back to the beginning

                   begin again.

I had a dream last night
where I didn't dream at all.

Everything was numb
and I couldn't shut the blinds

So I pretended to stop existing
like everything else around me.

Always

Time started screaming in my face
but my body didn't move.

Nearly

Making pictures with my hands
in the midnight sun's silhouette.

Noticing things that weren't there before,
like the lint that comes alive

and swallows you whole,
leaving you gasping and retching

Now

in the silence that is your mind
like an old playlist on loop.

*Go to sleep now. You have to get up in a few minutes, sweetheart.

They aren't monsters, they're shadows.

So sleep now, darling, and they'll disappear.

18/02/2012*

He said his name was Franc.
I asked him if his parents named him after the currency and he nodded
a little when I told him that was silly. He shrugged and said that they were
poor at the time when they were living in Bourges and when he was born,
it gave them more happiness than the money that they needed to buy a house
with would have. I still told him it sounded silly so he shrugged again and
said he thought it was kind of sweet.

My head is a bucket filled to
                                    the brim.
It's not that it ends there,
                              it overflows sometimes.
                      I hate when I soak, though
     Drench everything near me.
    It's not that I want to. I really
                                             don't.
But the H2O don't stop, friend.
                     Well, I can't stop it at
                                                  least.
Sorry for getting you wet. Seems
                   like my subconscious
                                  missed you.
Here's a towel,
                   oh no, it's already wet.
      Sorry about that. Looks like they're
                                              all wet.
If you leave me now, you can catch the
                                       last shots of sun.
      Dry in the heat and leave me
                                         to drown.

Don't worry though, I'm fine here.

I stood beside a boy today that
smelled the same way that you do.
It brought me back to the
summer and how we had
our faces so close. Everything
so close.

They say that scent is the strongest
trigger for memories that we have.

Well I remember your arms and
my fingers in your hair
and the way that you told me
I was beautiful, but you're
so beautiful.

I remember your face when
you were sleeping and the way
that we met. Both a little
broken and both a little too
over our heads.

I keep going back to that night on the beach,

And that one in Kathy's garden where you braided my hair,

And that one in your back room where you got drunk for the first time,

And that one at that party where you passed out,

And that one where you brought that ***** you're dating,

And that one where you wouldn't even look me in the eye,

And that one where you told everyone I wanted to ruin their lives.


What ***** me up most is how I told you I loved you and you said you loved me too,

But you didn't get what I meant.

And now I'm here in the midst of you pretending I don't exist, trying not to let everything go and ******* beg for you;

But I'm not that type of girl.

Time slows down and the nervousness turns into the wind
That swims around, tying itself around your neck
            Like a reversed winter scarf, keeping the draught in rather than out.

You wouldn't be so insensitive as to say that you know
          How those soldiers in Afghanistan feel carrying around all
                    That weight on their shoulders every day.

But in the mornings when it's dark and silent, you whisper
to the air around you that you feel it worse.
               Your load is like lead and it's never easing up.

How many more of these will I have to write until

You're finally removed from my mind? I tried to buy

Flowers for my friend but I couldn't because daisies

Remind me of cigarettes and perfume. The way you

Tried to cover up the smell with it.

You see, I take the beautiful things and I ruin them.

Sometimes I dream that something is choking me

And I'll wake up still suffocating, wondering if this

Is the moment that I die.

I've been dreaming a lot about dying lately.

Do you read these letters, baby? Do you know that

It's you that's choking me in my sleep? Pushing down

Against my chest but I'm so intoxicated by you that

I think it's love.

The only studying we ever got done
together was anatomy,

you whispering the names of bones into
my skin, each followed with a kiss-

clavicle

sternum

ilium

patella

Each word sparking through my skin
and into the blood coursing around my
body.
Making alpines of my skin with each of
your exhales.

It's much warmer here beneath the sheets
than between the pages of your books.

Gentle
Gentle
breathe it in
it's all for you:

The moss on the trees
the acid in your mouth
the choked air in a sun room.

We can share this together.



See here is the man missing.
         the hero is missing.

We heard many great tales of his exploits:

The wife at home,
her endless tapestry

The fatherless son now
A quarter century old.

We can share his glories,
the glorious goods:

Waking up to blood
on bedsheets
without a sign of scratch



Here
Here
     Come gentle now
forgotten son:

The sail is escaping from your grip
This ship is taking us nowhere
Change the gears.

A hero will come, he’ll come
He’ll come
He’ll come

(The hero has left the room)

I had a dream about you last night.
I thought that I had forgotten you but
There you were,
Sitting on my roof
Trying to give me a book that I had
Already read.

There's the topaz bear
                                       that sits on the kitchen
                                       windowsill so that when

                                       the sun is shining, it paints
                                       rainbows on the dough

                                       and you feel your heart
                                       warming up at the sight
                                      
                                       because even though
                                       you're alone, you can see
                                      
                                       that there are still some
                                       beautiful things that exist
                                      
                                       even if it feels like your
                                       soul is dead, there are
                                      
                                       still bits of it that are alive,
                                       trying to shine through
                                      
                                       your confines and grab
                                       what little pieces of
                                      
                                       happiness it can reach.

I started writing this when we were still together
The sad thing is that a lot has changed in a week without you.
It always started with how
before you my life was silence,
there wasn't any rhythm or serenity that came from song.

- I've changed it now.

During you, everything was music, and vibrancy, and just-
happy. Then sad.

Now that you're gone I've returned to my primary state.
I feel like the shell of something that used to be. Like whatever I was has crawled out and moved on away.

My old best friend got drunk last night and sent me a message telling me how much he loved me;
                                                             ­    because I was pretty,
                                                         ­                                 "****** up."
I wouldn't blame that on you though, because it's been a work-in-progress for
                       7 years now. You just splashed some more of that onto the already ****** artwork. Someone said that I should start thinking of people as art,
but I'm still failing to see how I could be anything like art myself.

But you,
you were a masterpiece-
signed with an expiration date.

I see what is happening to you like a nostalgia
Because I know exactly what it's like and oh,

I wish, I wish, I wish that I could help you.

Make it stop
Throw it away as unnecessary emotion.

I've been just as mad and
Just as reclusive and
I don't want you to suffer for this anymore.

I don't know how to put all that I am into
Words for you, I only have this.

You are more than your sadness and
More than this hollowing pivotal point that
wrung me dry of all that I had.

I don't want to see that happen to you.

A foreign city.
Motionless but the wind.
Held down by heat beneath a tram.
A fountain – barren in the cold.
Arms rested against a fence.
We witness a robbery.
Three boys.
Feet gripping gravel.


“SHUT UP”
“SHUT UP”
“THEY WILL HEAR US”
“DISAPPEAR”
“DISAPPEAR”


Walking back into the kitchen.
No one to tell.
Head rests against cold tile.
Sweat scrapes like sandpaper.
Heated light bearing against the skull.
Arms like anvils.
Skin like stalactites.
The memory of a home.

I'll catch public transport every day but never learn the difference between zones 1 and 2.

I won't remember your age, or your birthday, or what your political stance is

But I'll remember about the time when you were six and you knocked your head on a chair, chipping off half of your brand new buck tooth.

And even the way you shook your head self-deprecatingly after you told me that story and pointed to the filling you have now because of it.

You said that it's invisible but I saw it -- if only because you told me it was there.

Whenever my bones ached,
my mother would tell me that
“they’re just growing pains".
All of my problems will be gone
in the morning because things
won’t matter anymore then.