(Yaz, you’re very good at making me hurt. and I mean that in the nicest, loveliest way possible)
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.