I don’t know much
but I do know that
you are not
made of tragedy.
So don’t call this a
Call it technical difficulty.
Call it the wrong stop on
the right path.
Call it almost there.
Call it halfway.
Call it anything but over.
Because you are
no where near over, baby.
This is the way things work
when they are just getting started.
So don’t hop off yet,
Not when you haven’t even seen
where this is going.
I never know if I am in love or not
until I start writing poetry about it.
He doesn’t taste like a pastel
sunset or a tornado full of
he quotes Bukowski’s poems
like they are baseball stats
he spent hours memorizing
but never felt a thing for.
I miss the way you used
to hold me like you knew
something about storms.
I’ve been wearing lipstick
that doesn’t taste like you lately.
and I know I don’t owe you an apology for this
but I’m still sorry.
I want to kiss people without
your ghost unstitching my skin
and leaving everything covered
I want to stop hating my mother for
being right about all of this.
But for now I am going to scream
at the sky
until the lightning answers back.
Maybe it will be God’s way of telling me
to snap out of this.
and some days you are still trying to grow out
of being this young
and other days you just want someone to sing you to safety
with a lullaby that reminds you the world isn’t ending.
I know you’re tired of the moon painting
your fingernails with chipping galaxies
and your heart leaking gunpowder, and
I know some days the ground is still made of lava
and your feet are made of smoke.
And I know all about the ache.
I have dug it out of my own chest.
This is still so new to you,
and you are already tired of it.
I promise it won’t always be about
trying to find reasons to get out of bed in the morning.
Volcanoes sleep for years
waiting for the right time to be remembered,
and you, too, are made of something explosive.
We paint permanent murals
on driveways that will not always be
and that’s not a tragedy.
One day, you will understand why the boy you kissed
when you were fifteen never called back,
and why the best friend you wrote poetry for
forgot your name.
And I know how much you hate surprises,baby,
but here’s one:
You are going to get through this.
It will rain smoke the day you do,
and you will still see clearer than ever.