You can run through a red light
or creep through a darkened cemetery
when the clock strikes midnight
and I may never understand
the thrill or adrenaline of fear
but I know that
when you tiptoe on a tightrope
instead of walk right across
there’s a higher chance of falling
but at least
I can prepare
to hit the ground

Dear Me,
I hope you’ve learned how to be content
I hope you’ve learned that making the biggest sandcastle
doesn’t require the largest shovel
but rather the patience to return again and again to the sea
I hope you’ve learned that stars appear brightest
when you want them the most
and the moon is not worth more than the stars
even if it is the one who illuminates the sky
I hope you’ve learned that missing someone only ever ends
until you see them again
and you will always have to be the one to put in the effort
and make the time
I hope you’ve learned to look in the mirror
without covering your eyes
I hope you realize that perfection is a fragment
of the imagination
and sometimes broken is okay
I hope you’ve learned to catch tears and write letters
with their ink
and I hope you know to laugh loudly and save the sound for lonely days
But above all, I hope you’ve learned that love is not a shadow
and will try to lift you up
if only you just reach out your hand

I rode a motorcycle through Salvador,
kicking up dirt like soccer players in favelas,
breezing past mangy donkeys chewing grass
          by the side of the road.
I came to a stop by a fruit stand
as ripe guarana stung my nose and old women
in brown aprons wrinkled their eyes.
A shower of dust,
a cloud of mosquitos,
the catcalls of bums on the streets,
a chorus of the Brazilian poor living under
sheet metal and a sky full of dreams.
A motorcycle does not stand out
          with its gleaming, sun-pierced chrome
but the white of my skin and new clothes
placed me outside of it all,
my ears tuned to Portuguese swears
          and the angry whistles of almost noon.
I caught a girl by her arm
and asked where the nearest hotel was.
She giggled and said-
          In the favelas
          you sleep with a pillow and, in your mind's eye,
          the bright lights of a city you'll never own.

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art