we were pink and blue cotton candy girls surrounded by greenery and burning wood and we tip-toed past the sleeping grownups so we could tell each other secrets in the attic and hope that no one heard the creaking floorboards.

he injected himself with chemicals until his body was too tired to fight with him anymore and he followed the sound of the wind when the earth that we treaded so lightly on asked him to come home; we gave all of the pieces of him that he left behind to the roots of the tree our parents planted in the back of our a-frame palace and it is comforting to know that we all still grow together in its branches, whether we are there or not. our words wrapped themselves around the leaves of the woods we gave our hearts to.

i can remember the way my eyes stung and how the wet cloth felt on my face when a much smaller version of myself stood on the balcony underneath the stars i still thought were alive while my father put out the fire downstairs. it was quite jarring when i finally grew older and realized he was usually the one to strike the match.

i’m not sure that there’s such a thing as heaven, but at least i’m certain on what i’d like mine to be like. i hope death is like waking up next to my mother to the glow of sunlight filtering itself through long, frilly, pink curtains and the sound of the boys laughing over breakfast. i hope it looks like me and my blood dancing around red and green firecrackers on summer nights. i hope it’s eating peaches on the porch on a warm, breezy morning with people who haven’t hurt me yet. i hope it’s scraped knees and grass stains and afternoons spent on swing sets. i hope it feels like home.