here’s to the average ones
here’s to those whose hands are much too small to cover
the markings on their skin saying, “never good enough”

here’s to the once-dreamers
the once-believers in potential and possibility
hearts and hands that used to cradle glasses half-full

god, i hope you know
how brave you are for being here
how minute your chances are to even exist

and yet

you do
again, & again, & steadily still,
you do

here’s to the average ones
i hope you know, there is beauty in being alive
and the tired parts of you are proof of that

and you: you with a ribcage forged to toughness
by the stress and strain and other forces of human hurt
you have earned every single heartbeat

own it

(here’s to the ones who are only ever good at failing
remember this: the world is kept alive
by people who try)

so this is how we love
all goodbyes and apologies
and lips mapping freckle to freckle
like a cartographer pinpointing
places that deserve to be named
and remembered

so this is how we hurt
carving scars onto scars and
diving headfirst into every space
in the universe that would take us,
that would welcome our pain with
open arms and say, there is more of that
here, come get your fill

so this is how we heal
in the strangest of places, like unfamiliar
suns and mattresses made of feathery
limbs, we find rest and each other
and we learn to say *no, that is enough,
this is where our hurt ends

they say all that is soft breaks easy    
but oh, how you bend and endure.

i have known nights
where men walk the sun
and the stars count people

sheep huddle together
in grassy fields
dreaming
of fences
worn down

see, the funny thing
about nights is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between the first
and the last

(And hey,
****** ******
The cat’s lost his fiddle
Orion’s got a belt
Round his neck)

the lass
on the moon
plucks planets
from the blue
and decorates
the tangles in
her hair

see, the funny thing
about dreaming is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between what hurts
and what doesn’t

(The cat’s started drinking
Orion’s stopped thinking)

dawn
decides to sleep in
for just
another hour
or two

see, the funny thing
about nights is
i have always known them
but know nothing
of you

(And the fiddle has gone out of tune).

Unto seventy years and seven,
  Hide your double birthright well--
You, that are the brat of Heaven
  And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
  Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
  Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in
  Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
  Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,
  See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
  Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on
  Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
  Murmur, "Silly little thing!"

darling,

lift that fingertip away from your scars
and trace these ragged map-lines instead
here, here are better roads to take
than loneliness

so maybe your knuckle feels much too bare
but know that our fingers are not made to sit waiting
for a ring –
they are built to hold

so hold – find another set of fingers
grasping for a stronger pair of hands
there is nothing more beautiful than two small limbs
making a home in each other

or better yet, when your bones feel
too big for his too-full arms and too brittle
for the weight of your sadness
hold yourself together, never let go

when the night is too full of night
to see the stars, take a mirror and try to
search for the starstuff in you

you. the point between history and tomorrow
the most graceful of reckonings
the steady hum of *more, more beneath cracking skin
you. the sum of all things soft and true  

and remember: those bones were never built to
shoulder the world
they were only ever meant
to carry you