I call to you from bruised knees,
amidst a haze of my own humanness
in a blood-smeared tunic
with dirt in my nail beds
tear stains on my face
and you are waiting.
Arms spread wide and love in your eyes.
“You are mine”,
And my heart slows -
because I am yours.

You know my heart –
every muscle and sinew,
you built to the frame of my bones
breathed your design into every cell
and numbered the hairs on my head.

And so, whilst I battle confused against my fingers
Gripping like iron clamps to burdens,
refusing to give them up though I so want to let go -
You are not surprised.
I don’t understand.
You didn’t ask me to.
And from the depths of my soul song rises
whispered, ragged almost at first
to praise the One who never changes
who is always trustworthy
whose arms are spread wide and waiting
a heart felt Hallelujah.

Back in elementary school, they used to ask if we had telepathy.
If we could magically read each other’s thoughts,
and talk without words.

Our answer was always yes.
In reality, we both knew we couldn’t.
But back then,
we were still young enough to pretend magic existed.

So I’d face him, cross my fingers,
and pray we were still close enough to understand each other—
just this once.
As we got older, our answers started to differ.
I think that’s when I noticed we were slipping.

Another question they asked:
Could we feel each other’s pain?
He always told them he could feel when I got sick,
when I got my period,
when I was hurting in my head.

Me?
I couldn’t feel a thing.
Sometimes I barely noticed when he was hurting.
But God…
if I could’ve taken his pain into my own body,
I’d have done it ten times over.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Until the only pain he ever felt
was the cramping from my periods.

They asked if we were close.
I thought we were.
I think he did too.
Truth is,
he’s been the only person I’ve known since birth
who’s still here.

I held onto him tightly.
Too tightly, maybe.
I told him what to do—not to control him,
but because I was scared he’d drift.
Scared that if he found better friends,
I’d be replaceable.
Disposable.
Maybe I still am.
But all I know is I’m still here.
Because of him.

Someday, we’ll drift.
I know we will.
He’ll have a life, and so will I.
Someday I’ll flip through old photographs
when I’m wrinkled and slow,
and my grandchildren will ask about the boy next to me,
the one holding me so tightly my face is smooshed.
And I’ll tell them,
“That was my best friend.”

I’ll close my eyes,
and wish I was still young enough to believe
forever might exist.

When I sleep, I’ll be fourteen again.
You’ll still be there.
And that’s all I ever wanted.

In your own house,
you’ll hear birdsong outside your window.
And you’ll remember me—
because I always told you I’d haunt you in every life.
Even as a bird.

But in every universe,
I’ll be your sister.
And in each one,
I’ll hold you closer during the times I didn’t know how to.
I’ll tell you I love you,
so you never doubt I was there for you.

I hope someone loves growing old with you
as much as I loved growing up with you.

I was four
Still sleeping with my mama because I was scared of the monsters that were told in my storybooks
I was four and eating Mac and cheese off a big colorful plate with a big scoop of ice cream for dessert
I was six when I got driven to school
With the ponytail grandma put in my hair
I played with boys and girls at recess and came home with dirt on my clothes and would ponder at night what would happen tomorrow
I was eleven when I cut bangs in my hair
And started choosing what I wore to match the girls in my class who were skinny compared to myself
I always blamed the Mac and cheese
I slept dreaming of a boy I thought I loved until I was thirteen and he only wanted my body
I was sixteen when I said I hated my mama
Despite her always wanting me to sleep in her bed because she too was scared of the monsters, but the monster was just her daughter who had formed so much anger at the world, but deep down it was just despair
I am now seventeen
Seventeen sleeping in a cold, dark room every night and waking up with a sense of dread
Seventeen when mama stopped asking me to sleep with her, because someone took my spot
Seventeen skipping meals and not eating Mac and cheese, because of the numbers on the side of the box
Seventeen thinking I will never fall in love
Seventeen wishing she did more to protect that little girl
Who ate Mac and cheese with dirt on her clothes

It is proven that we are all made of stars.
Not just one but multiple.
We were once tiny little particles that grew under pressure,
And shined bright for millions of years.
That was until we were released into the universe,
For a new life to be led.
I believe the people we meet in this world,
Those we have an instant connection with,
Share a star with us.
We recognize them because we once spent millions of years with them.
Growing.
Changing.
Developing in the same pressure.
I believe that our soulmates are made up of the exact same stars as us.
The same elemental composition.
It is the reason we are so comfortable.
Why they feel like home.
It is the home we knew for millions of years.
The twin flame of our soul.

Am I too young to miss the past
Am I too old to enjoy the rain
Too young to notice the change
Too old to be immature

Or maybe too young to think when to blink
in fear I’ll miss the bliss if I stop to think

Or maybe age isn’t real
Just there to control when we do what
When we should be embarrassed to cry,
or when to start to live our lives,
and with a blink of an eye
you’re caught barely alive,
wore out from existence of time

I’m the smart one,
They always say.
But I can’t spell February
Without whispering it under my breath.
It takes me five minutes.
To spell a word
And a whole day
to spell out what I need.

I don’t know how to do my taxes.
But I know how to call the pharmacy.
I know how to sit beside red,
Old and stubborn,
And blue,
Young and breaking.
I know how to translate pain
Into prescriptions,
How to smile when I want to scream
Into a pillowcase.

I’m only 21.

I want to kiss someone
because I like them,
Not because I’m running out of time.
I want to be drunk in a parking lot,
Laughing about nothing.
I want to have a boyfriend
And forget to text him back.
I want to dye my hair and regret it.

But they need me.

They say they’re fine—
But it’s 102 degrees inside
And I’m sticking to the floor.
If I stop moving,
I might melt.
I might disappear.

There’s only one of me.

I was supposed to be the baby.
Now I baby everyone else.
I rock the house to sleep
With grocery lists and gas bills.
No lullabies, just stopping an argument
No cartoons, just stopping a meltdown

I want
A life where I can be
Irresponsible.
Where I can be loud,
Messy, wrong.
Where I don’t have to be
Strong
To be loved.

I want a life that doesn’t only begin
After everyone else’s ends.