I stood in the sun
and thought of you
and of my junebug heart.
It clings on, unshakable,
even after it’s death.

And you like that about me,
my junebug heart that is.
You think you have one too.
I know that you don’t.
Yours is fleeting.

I just wanted to lay in bed awake today.
And watch the light and space and angles.
How they fill and flesh each other,
each really just composed of the other two.

But I couldn’t.
I had to get up and run around a field
and sit in class after class
and listen to the tiny problems that fell into other people’s laps.

All I wanted to do was see the light and space and angles,
because everything else ached to have in my head:
about a girl getting pregnant at thirteen
about a mental breakdown
about a crumbled piece of world.

It was so much easier to wall in and hole up
because it hurt to deal with all those almost-hells.

I almost couldn’t.

I almost lost it.