"Your mother will never talk about the fire in your poetry
the way these strangers do.
She spends too much time complaining about the paper
crumpled on the floor
to have any left for looking at the art on your walls.
And maybe you don’t really love the boy who lives inside of your skull.
Maybe he was just the first one to ever ask if you were okay.
I want to talk about the purple skies wrapped around your heart,
I want to talk about the days you speak in raindrops.
Are your eyes bleeding water while reading this?
It’s fine, it’s best you found out
how much you really cared by now.
You never meant to pick fights with yourself,
but one day,
you couldn’t look in the mirror anymore
without clenching your fists.
War is so tiring when you have destroyed
the only thing you could come home to.
I don’t think you’re terrible for this,
I just think you find the wrong things beautiful.
Let’s stop talking about it.
Let’s do something instead.
Do you know what happiness tastes like?
One day you will.
you’ll like it better than the blood in your mouth,
and I promise it will be there when you are ready to find it.
You just have to remember to look for it first."