There once was a time that I created
a new language with everyone I met
that I wanted to keep around. Together
we'd make up new words to describe
the things we felt that we knew others
would never understand and we used
inside jokes and silly things that happened
to make sense of other things or to forget
things that hurt more than we cared
to admit. For a while the people I met and I
would explore town and claim little hideouts
as our own and everyone got one
but no one ever shared the location

with anyone else.

We would meet at sunrise or sunset
depending on the day and talk about all the things
everyone else would think us bratty or stupid
or whatever for saying. Where we would write
and paint, laugh and cry, give birth and die
just a little more each time. But it was never
meant as a bad thing. When I was younger
I talked to people and I knew what happiness was

but when my teacher taught me
about the taste of ink and the feel of keys
beneath my fingers I traded reality for
what I could create myself. I longed for a story
better than dreams and kinder than the
real thing. But I quickly became addicted
to that feel. Now I'm sitting behind a
brightly lit screen opening healed wounds
and cutting into my veins as I search for

new ways to say the things poets have beat me to
by centuries and trying to convey the cruelty
of this world around me that really isn't
all that cruel. And I really don't think you
are able to comprehend this but I thought
if anyone would listen to me it would be you.

And I figured if I was going to bleed out tonight
this would be the best canvass.

Thank you for all of your kindness
and love. Thank you for only ever believing
in me and wishing me the best. Thank you
so much for everything. I will not let you down

this time.