you are hope and love, the hand of death, the tar that swallows species.
you are the morning dew that glistens and whispers rumors about the end of the world.
you can be anything you want to be! is the lie we’ve all agreed to murmur in your eager, gullible ears
because we know, cruelly, you will believe us.
clasp your hands, child, in those moments of fulgurant despair when God seems almost real, when He seems to stand over you, all His divine hosts ready to proselytize you in your moments of weakness.
clasp your hands, squeeze them tight, fingernails biting into flesh, because sometimes pain is the only certainty,
and remember the promise, child: ignore the whiskey-soaked father standing over you with the notched belt; ignore the bleeding bread-crumb trails of dreams left scattered in your wake; ignore the miles-long nights and worries and grudges and the abandoned i-wills and i-swears; ignore the emptiness that swells in your chest until you cry, alone, because yes, you are alone.
ignore the ceaseless tide of days where you feel nothing. do not worry, child: these are the side-effects of greatness.