when she was growing up, she
always liked sad songs best. She
said it was beautiful to feel,
and if a song made her cry it
became her favourite. Maybe I
don’t always choose people who
know how to handle breakable
things gently, but I know how to
give my heart to people who
will make me cry, and I know
somehow it always makes me
feel more alive.
We never touch,
no matter how far down our hands reach.
There are no words,
for waking up with a scream stuck
to the roof of your mouth,
grasping at the sky with clenched fists.
Remembering that desperate need
to catch all the beautiful but dying
paper-cut stars, falling
out of the sky when the universe
way too fast.
Too many damned stars are slipping through my fingers,
Leaving me with cut and mangled hands, raised
in sad salute to the bleeding moon.
There are no words for fearlessness melted,
Or blame come redemption.
No words for losing your baby sister.
Or for trying to find her again.
There are no words for how folding the corners
of that handwritten “I. Love. You”
into every corner of my soul,
Folds each vertebrae in my spine,
collapsing bone upon bone upon bone,
into a neat little square,
reminding me that yes,
I am small.