your mouth is a door,
and someday you are going to be told that it's just better left closed.

your eyes are the windows to your soul,
and someday people are going to tell you to draw the curtains.

your heart has been unpacked from the basement,
and someday someone is going to tell you to put it away.

and your optimism is a candle in your windows, and someday everyone's going to try and blow it out.

i'm telling you this,
because when that someday comes i want you to know what to say.

you say,

"my mouth is a door, and i hold the key."
"my eyes are the windows to my soul and i'll wash them regularly."
"my heart will not be put away, it goes with everything."
"my optimism is a candle, and it keeps me warm."

when that someday comes,
i want you to know what to say...

you say,
"this is my house, and it's not for sale."

girls with buzz cuts singing along
to beach house
the air thick with eccentricity
and anarchy
their painted nails beginning to chip slowly
like the minds of the older folks that are
too engrossed with their holy books

smart mouths and their pretentious words

they make you want to kneel and pray
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your hands
like
reaching for your dreams
or punching some guy's face for telling you to
smile, pretty lady

and

boys with long locks crying to
armageddon
the blue sea spilling out from their red eyes
their shirts splattered with distress and
confusion

mostly from people who are built like big boulders
and war tanks

too upset to see one of them crying
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your anatomy
like
building homes with pretty gardens
or sewing a dainty dress for your niece

drawing
stick people
trying
not to make them look
sick
wasting time being
wasted
because when something inside
your chest feels
broken
the clock seems to be working
slower than
usual
praying
to someone in the ceiling to
please stop the
aching
looking for my sanity
just another thing
lost
the lingering question
following me around
like a red balloon
tied to my
wrist
unanswered still:
lover, do you like yourself
better
now that you're with
her?

today i was thinking about
loss
and how perfect
silence is in its purest form

and i was thinking about
love
and how beautiful
music is to broken ears

and i was thinking about
how there are
a lot of versions
of myself

like playing cards
that are all the same deck
but every face is a little
different from the other

depending upon
the company
holding it
of course

but i was thinking about
which i liked best and
it's the version of me
when i'm alone

all my faces shuffled and
neatly stacked with
those useless jokers turned
inward against the others.

and then i got to thinking about
love and loss again
and i decided upon what
i would really like

and that is to find the person who
i like the version of myself with
as much as i like the version of myself
when i'm alone

and i would like to fall so deeply in
love with them that all my other
losses look to me like
the faces of playing cards.