Introduce yourself to the word scour. Break in your boots. Look in the mirror but don’t fall in. Find your way back to the city. Be sad. Pray with your mouth shut. Paint the breeze with your fingers. Scream at the sky. Make someone else a statue and never tell them about it. Run faster. Breathe harder. For the record: you are every scribble from every pen. For the record: profound things happen when you expect them to.

Stitch the word havoc into the sky and watch the clouds tangle themselves around your fingers. Be careful with your tongue. Let it be a secret in your mouth. Let it keep itself, and keep learning. Be careful with your mouth too, there are teeth and spikes and claws in there. There’s a reason for the blood, but there’s no reason to be afraid. Remember: there are no monsters, just open wounds. Suture or salt; you can cut your own hair with the same pair of scissors.

Soak in the word desperate. Drag it to the coast and see if it floats. Spell it out in the sand next to your name. Follow it into the water. Drown in it. Let it sting your stomach, burn your chest, infuse your lungs. Puke it up. Bury it in the earth and watch it bloom. Every word is a little bit of sky and a little bit of grave. Keep in mind that a word is always larger than you, and always more complicated. You are not a word, but you are inside of a word, even when you’re using it wrong.

Become familiar with the word unyielding. Hold it like a torch and see how it catches fire. Read it with your eyes closed and remember how much it looks like a window. Know how it sounds when it creaks, how it smells when it singes. Keep it burning. Hold it to your chest. Keep it near your heart. Remember how it feels to keep a flame inside you, a burning wick, a glow of your own. Glass shatters and panes splinter, but you can still see through it. You can still breathe through it. The only thing that will ever stop your heart is your own hand, and your hand is busy holding the fire.

Be wary of the word indifferent. It’s slippery ivy. It slinks around the garden and climbs the fence. It jets out of the drain and spills into the street. It sways in the wind and the crows seem to avoid it. It finds you as a heap on the lawn; hemorrhaging from another too-soft song, another too-familiar funeral. It hides in the hedgerow and waits to bite. It will show you a dead branch and claim it as its own, it will wrap its arms around you and make you feel dead too. It stains the sun and drowns the rain, then drinks in the fog and swallows the dew. It devours all the light. But you need the light. Rip out roots and demand light. Make yourself a bouquet of light. This is the only weapon you have, so use it. Use the light.

Appreciate the word tender. It is the word that sings the most, that draws the longest breath. It is the closest you can come to an answer and the only word that can stand up to the question. Earnest and pure, always meeting you at the door, always taking you by the hand. There are no innocents in this world, no unscathed souls, or unmarked hands, just a mess of water-stained, dented hearts, of coins greening in the fountain, a hand-drawn map of a sinking city, and an endless tunnel of light. There’s a wide-open mouth that wants to be a door and a door that wants to be a mouth. There’s a window that wants to be a window, and there’s a word for this. There’s always a word for this. You just don’t know it yet.