on the days we are not
ourselves, i think we should
light a candle and mourne the
loss. when i was
a kid, i used to think if i went
just a little further up on the
swing, i'd be able to touch the
sky. i have that memory placed
in me like a warning that flashes
every single time i want
something i can't
my father sees himself losing
me everyday, says," poetry
won't save you honey."
but daddy, poetry has saved
twice already.
a house of sleeping thoughts,
i don't want to wake you
i have enough of crap to
swirl with already, and i
have enough time and outside,
my sky that bleeds blue
is crumbling already.