she inspires masterpieces
and orchestrates symphonies.
how is it that she
is both oil and canvas?
torn sketchpads and
rough drafts spattered in red ink,
these run through her veins.
she is not imperfect—
only revising.

—w.b.h.

I do not know
if things will be okay,
but I know
that things will go on,
and that's enough
to keep going.

*—w.b.h.

unless you've felt like a ghost
condemned to haunt its own body,
unless you've ever prescribed
self-destruction as self-medication,
unless vulnerability means only telling
half your story because that's enough
to get everyone to stop asking,
unless being told "you're just like your dad"
is your greatest fear,

don't tell me you understand.

*–w.b.h.