Today is so beautiful.
Today is so beautiful in the forest.
Today is so beautiful in the forest with the blue sky and the golden leaves.
Today is so beautiful in the forest with the blue sky and the golden leaves and the ten thousand buried in mass graves.
How.

You* think you're boring.
I* think you're the most exciting person in the world.
You think you're ugly.
I think you're the most gorgeous person on the planet.
You think you're stupid.
I think you're a genius.
You think you have flaws.
I think you're more perfect than anything I've ever seen.
You think you're not good enough.
I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.
No matter what you think, I'll always think you're amazing.

Check under the bed,
in the closet, on the floor,
in the garbage, through the window
and even out the door.

*I need to find myself.

Metal pipes run
the length of the ceiling, where
rusted nozzles hang
downwards, morning glories of death.
What a relief
you must have felt when
only water fell
from those flowers, mimicking
tears of joy
on far too many cheeks.
What an irony
that an element that cuts off air
and drowns many
gave you the right and permission
to breathe freely.

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.

A small child
in a mass grave. One
of millions, but this one
bore your name. Then
I cry. Pregnant mothers
and old men, brothers
and wives and daughters and all
I can think about
is this child that shared
a string of letters
with you. What if
What if
What if