I'll never forget the feeling of my baby brother's fingertips,
How thankful I was to feel his flesh and not empty space.
Hydronephrosis wasn't a word they told me to study for my 5th grade spelling bee,
but it somehow because my most frequently used word for the first month of his life.
Along with guardian ad litem, child support, separation
because Daddy hit Mommy, and Daddy hit Maddie.
Supervised visitation.
Daddy hasn't seen him in six years but Maddie saw Daddy just the other day and had panic attacks instead of sleeping.
Every time I see a trait in my baby brother than reminds me of his dad I love on him a little more
So he doesn't give a sixth grader PTSD one day.
Hydronephrosis is child's play when they start talking about leukemia,
Or lymphoma,
Or osteosarcoma,
Or whatever the **** it is because they still don't know what's wrong
with my 7 year old piece of heaven,
my proof that pure, unadulterated innocence still exists.
I missed two weeks of school
to make sure his dimples always showed
And to make sure Mommy didn't fall apart
I was supposed to be her rock
But my own tears wore me down.
I eroded.
Like grains of sand slipping through fingers, I watched him slip away.
He almost died in my arms.
I missed two weeks of school
And still miss days when he goes to the doctor
I'm waiting by the phone for when a check up turns into a diagnosis
Praying to a god I'm not even sure exists anymore
To keep me alive
By keeping him alive.

Birds of a feather flock together,
which explains why I don't have many friends.
I'm an outcast even on the island of misfit toys.
I'm your childhood doll,
we're inseparable until you outgrow me,
until you stuff me in the bottom of your closet
for me to wait for you to take advantage of me again.
"Best friend" is a foreign expression
when everyone you let your guard down for rids themselves of you like the shedding of old skin.
I'm the last one picked for dodgeball,
for partners in English class,
for weekends out,
for a phone call,
for a text message.
If friends are supposed to be forever, I guess I forgot to read the fine print.
I'm what happens when lonely is less an adjective and more a personality trait.

My love is focused stares across a crowded room, extended fingertips, longing.
My love is inopportune places at inopportune times.
My love is counting down the minutes until work is over.
My love is picturing his clothes in a ball on my bedroom floor,
my love is his clothes on me.
My love is wanting to open Christmas presents early, but worth waiting for.
My love is drunken nights sobbing on the bathroom floor, men are allowed to rely on their women.
Sometimes my love is a pumpkin spice latte, seasonal.
My love is jumping off a plane and opening a parachute, jumping off a bridge and feeling the bungee chord; thrilling, seemingly dangerous but I'm always protected.
My love is falling down seven times, standing up eight.
My love is my steadfast faith in what I can't see.
My love is renovating a burnt down city. Finding beauty in ashy remains.
My love is 4 AM night terrors, soft whispers, fingers through my hair.
My love is lust wrapped in a pretty package.
My love is fire, whether it keeps me warm or destroys everything in its wake depends on the day.
My love is "**** that guy baby, he doesn't matter, you're not alone, I love you, you're beautiful." My love judges people he doesn't know so my wrists stay porcelain, not Crimson.
My love hates my music but listens anyway, hates my glasses but looks at me anyway, hates my singing but sings with me anyway.
My love is a bullfight on eggshells. We know nothing of subtlety.
My love is a diamond in the rough, he's the diamond, I'm the rough.
My love is ******* up everyday and wearing his patience thin.
My love is holding the same hand, kissing the same lips, seeing the same eyes every day and never getting bored.

I sat in this exact spot and told a boy I loved him for the very first time. I left my innocence here when I stood up.

Sometimes I can still find it in the cracks between the sheets of plastic, deep down underneath the remnants of the kids who did the same.

I drove here alone one day to dig it up but only found pieces of me that no longer fit together. When did I become so unfamiliar to myself?

That must have been the day I had my first real kiss.

I tried forcing him into my empty spaces but the picture never turned out how I hoped it would. I used to think it was bad luck.