She's Me. You're You. Let's Go Live.

When you were a child, your
mother held you close and told
you stories about the desert,
pink cactus flowers rising
from the thorns.

When you were a child, your
father broke a window, cracked
his pride, blood staining
the car floor.

When you were a child, you
had such wide eyes, black like
crawling beetles, tender like
freshly bruised plums.

You used to write your name
on all the walls of this house,
carefully drawing each letter
like it was a prayer you couldn’t
forget.

You once said that if something was
broken, it should be fixed, but look at
you now, my love.

Look at your scarred palms,
your bruised wrists,
your songbird heart.

Can you fix that, my love?

Can you fix the stitches or
the tears, mend the beating
and the words?

Don’t grow up, my love.

Do not blossom in a world
where there is a blood stain
on the car floor that reminds
you of your father.

Do not look up when a boy
blocks out the sun.

Do not let your virginity bleed
down a bathtub.

Stay small, soft, loved.

You will be beautiful if
you do not bloom,

my love.