Isn’t it cool that
the traditional image of a heart
is actually two hearts entwined together.
I do declare,
you are a work of art,
and I’m happy to leave you
with a little part of me.
So many works are based
on pain and anger and disappointment,
but my dearest,
even though it was a kind of good bye,
I hope we can always have
this lovely affection,
for you are still
my favorite girl.
I admit that I am confident in myself.
I believe that I will succeed in what I want to do,
and no one can stop me
because I know the secret of life.
I'll tell you a secret.
I make adults insecure sometimes
because I have ideas,
and I push to make them a reality
even when adults don't.
My mom told me:
Your mentor feels weird
because she's five years older than you,
and she's still learning things from you,
but I learn from you every day,
and I'm more than twenty years older than you.
I am lovely,
It’s something that won’t
ever be can’t be taken from me
because I have known humanity in every corner,
in every age,
and they all are so eager
to love and be loved
that my Mariana Trench heart is always full.
I leave lipstick stains
to mark my territory:
not on any significant other,
not even on cups or water bottles,
but on the cheeks of my mom and dad and brother
if he'll let me.
I have a stick of dark purple,
and another of bright pink,
and when I say my "good bye" and "I love you,"
I leave a ruddy mark.
My dad brags about me,
he says, "My senior still talks to me,"
and when I hear this second-hand I preen
and call him and talk to him some more.
My mom is the one who tells me this,
and she laughs at my antics,
me swelling up in pride,
because she thinks I'm hilarious.
Later, I wave in at her
while she's in some important meeting,
and she smiles and waves back, along with
three other members of that committee.
We joke about killing ourselves,
our hopes and dreams,
and the love we feel—
as though thats all they are, jokes.
The cough in my throat turned into a sandpaper burning sensation,
and yet I sang so loud today that someone complimented me.
Nothing will keep me silent, but I know you want it.
Every cough is an abrupt clap of the vocal chords:
that's what a voice teacher once told me,
and I can feel how right they are every time I cough
and feel like my throat is burning and bleeding all at once.
I want to not do anything with my throat except sing,
not cough, not breathe, not swallow,
just sing, loud enough that you can't help but hear.
I have no self-preservation, but who are you to call me out?
There is a song
hot and heavy on my breath
like this cough that's been bothering me the last two days.
There's always a song,
but usually I'm not so sick that I can't do anything except write it.