you, child, are everything.
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.
you can be anything.