As you read this you are traveling 220 kilometers per second across the galaxy and I cannot stop thinking about the fact that ninety percent of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not "you."

Which explains why your eyes likely originated from the belly of a star.

There is always a light at the end of every tunnel and if there isn't you should consider screaming until your voice echoes across the galaxies tucked within your irises.

I wonder if the trees know they must die every year for their leaves to become new again. Wounds line your heart like sticky notes left in the sun and the origin of you has been faded.

Black is the color of death but to your funeral I will wear white.

I will celebrate the death of everything trembling inside of you and stitch together funeral dresses for every version of you I watched leave without a goodbye.

I will wear white to your funeral to celebrate your rebirth soon to come.

Many hands will tie your old self to a chair and set the line between real and ideal on fire but only time can turn a flame into embers.

Most of the cells in your body are just empty space and skin is only a burial ground for old versions of yourself to die.

Your fingernails are only tiny shovels digging up a bed of dirt to plant new pieces of your DNA in.

I will cover my best dress in dirt and stain every white hem in celebration of the death of the fear inside of you and the birth of hope.

I take a hit.
My body warms,
I feel elated.
I crave you.
I need you.

It starts to hurt.
Friends judge.
They reason.
I quit you.

I relapse.
Again I am elated.
I crave you.
I need you.

Regret.
Guilt.
Pain.
Cries.

I take another hit.
I am addicted.
No one suspects.
I hide you.
I crave you.
I need you.

You hurt me.
Regret.
Guilt.
Pain.
Cries.

No reason.
No certainty.
Secret comfort.
Temporary euphoria.
I need help.
Your love is my drug.