Everyone you have lost is gone forever.  
If you try to call the dead, the phone won’t ring.
You won’t hear their voices.
The ground will shake like your wrists.
You will realize this sometime, when you’re in the bath and every nerve in your body is screaming at you to put your head under and count to a thousand.
You are more than a suicide note.
You are more than a suicide attempt.
You are more than cuts and bruises, and friends that abandon you and don’t even say hello in the hallways anymore.
People will leave you, daughter. People will leave you alone and shaking.
You’ll find solace in the most unexpected places, in the boys that look like they belong in the 1970s and in the vinyl that whispers to you while the sun is going down.
Eventually you will find the people that will bend the sky down to you so that you can touch the clouds.
They will become your motivation, they will become the glow in the dark stars on your bedroom ceiling.
You will forget that they are plastic, and often mistake them for the night’s sky.
Memories do not always hurt, it’s okay to be nostalgic but do not drown in it.
Do not drown in anything but love, daughter.
Love every leaf, every lover’s vein.
And every single time you think you’re going insane.
You’re not.
Remember that the door is always closed, but always easily opened.
Remember that you can leave.
Remember that you can take the next flight out, start a new life.
Remember that the world is in your piano hands.
You’ll meet someone and call them love because they don’t know the difference between the dull and sharp edge of a knife.
You’ll write poems.
Lots of them.
You’ll write enough poems to fill the walls in all of the rooms in all of the houses you have ever lived in.
You’ll scrawl them on the tree stumps you find temporary homes in while walking in the forest.
You’ll engrave them on someone’s bones after they tell you that they would rather die a thousand deaths than go a second without your energy warming their cheeks.
For every accomplishment, erase five shortcomings from your mind.
Be yourself before you forget who that is.
Be, daughter, be who you want to be;
Be who you know yourself to be.
When the world is sleeping on your shoulders at 4 in the morning, don’t wake it up.  
Take a deep breath, rock the earth into a deeper sleep.
Tell the walls your secrets because they don’t whisper.
Don’t tell anyone with a tongue something you wouldn’t want to end up floating back out of their mouths like a catchy song.
When you’re standing up on stage, waiting to start your poem, do not avoid eye contact.
Make everyone nervous with your metaphors.
Make everyone nervous with your passion.
You are the strongest soul you’ll ever be.
And when I die, shall we not meet again,
Remember that I am your mother, daughter.
And mothers, *always know best.

I wish to see
the cherry blossoms tonight;
What are you wearing?

You're the ship that sails
into my tempestuous wind,
braced for hard impact

She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.

Last night, I tried
to catch her one.

The evening breeze
had drawn it close;
silently it
wandered through the
open window.

At first, moonlight
masked its entrance.
The modest torch
it carried had
been overwhelmed
by shades of grey.

It landed on
a tiny leaf,
from vines that crawled
up the walls, and
into my room.

Resting quietly
on its platform,
the dull, green strobe
pulsated, slow
constant rhythm.

I cupped my hands,
extended them,
and gently reached
out toward the
unsuspecting
visitor. It
stayed, motionless.

At that moment,
I knew it was
mine to keep. For
you. For me? I
can't remember.

It had become
my light, my warmth.
All that mattered,
to me it was.

I opened my
cupped hands. Still it
stayed, motionless.

One, two, three, four.
I noticed that
every burst had
become dimmer
than the previous.

It was dying.

I imagined
it must've tried
hard, gathering
enough courage
to shine brightly
in the darkness,
but a firefly
cannot outshine
the brightest star.

If I had known.
If I listened,
I would've heard
its humble plea:
Though my light fades,
let me rest here
in your own warmth.

You don't glow green,
but I see it.
You are shining.
Let me rest here
in your own warmth.

She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.

Tonight, I will
tell her how I
had caught her one,
and what I learned:

*Seek not the weak
light that flickers
in another.
Look inside you.
It burns bright red.

I love with my hands

with a warm embrace,
a light pat on the back,
high fives, fist bumps
two thumbs up

A heart may not be for loving.

I love with my feet

when I wait in line,
while window-shopping,
running away with you,
walking down the aisle

A heart may not be for loving.

I love with my eyes

that still weep
long after you're gone,
that have baggage
big enough to carry yours

A heart may not be for loving.

I love with my lungs

you               
             are
my                 
                 oxygen

A heart may not be for loving.

I love with my brain

the mind finds patterns, makes connections
you paint everything I see, hum every song I hear
you are every fragance, each succulent morsel
and in slumber, still I find you in my dreamscape

A heart may not be for loving.

A heart may not be for loving,
but without it I cannot think
I won't see what I touch
or where I'm going

And I won't remember to           breathe.