It’s like staring at my soul.
You have consolidated and elevated
my heartbreak and worry and desperate, half-believed hope and things made up and it.. It’s a lot to take in at once.
You’ve penciled it into something powerful.
I don’t understand a lot about the world—
how there’s a G in although,
how the wind keeps itself from painting visibly,
the airiness of snow that can still be compacted better than smoke—
and I’m not the best with my own emotions;
I can’t find them the right jars,
and I can’t collect the right color labels,
or enough star stickers, but they are rising by the meters
with every intake of images;
they may not know the names for themselves,
but they know how to initiate overflow.
Thank you for your art.
Thank you for showing my heartbeat the steps to safely dancing,
thank you for a reason to think
the year might be more firework than frenzy,
and more hot cup of tea
I write to see myself,
to build a mirror out of syllables,
to buy back my voice from an age in which it only knew closets,
to find paint cans
in other people’s actions,
make something of events before they get a chance
to make something out of me.
I write because I like this skeleton,
no matter how often I call it marble or granite.
I write to take a walk through the past without tracking the mud back
I write because I love;
I love you.