Chocolate drips from her eyelids. At
Sixteen, she dreamed for a galaxy
and the stars above twinkled as if to
comfort a dying wish.
Your tears are beautiful to us, they said. The knife
that cuts your skin is made of crystal. Write.
Write and weave your pain into
silk, tintinnabulation, a song
for the linguists.
Turn it into Beethoven’s 9th Symphony,
for that is the only reason you are here.