bird heart and burning soul

in art, mistakes are beautiful when they’re made with confidence.

the same applies to life.

today i vowed to make beautiful mistakes
to write in ink
to let people hear my voice
i vowed to stop putting my life on hold while i search for myself
to wear more rings and drink more water
to be honest in my mind even if i can’t be honest with my mouth
[because we have to start somewhere]

i vowed to read deep into the night and then wake up early with sleepy eyes and a smile
i vowed to sing at least once a day
i vowed to breathe deeply and remember that things get better

today i vowed to set my soul on fire
and let it make me shine.

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blue hour eyes

people say
sparks fly when you meet your somebody

but it wasn’t like that with you.
there were no sparks when we met,
no birds singing, no cartoon
hearts.

you were reading.
it was a thick book, and old,
and dogeared
and you glanced up at me,
and smiled
and i remember noticing that your
eyes were blue
[not blue like the ocean
or the sky
but blue like mountains that are fading
into the distance
blue like the moment after the sun sets
blue like snow in the twilight]

and when i heard your
voice for the first time,
it felt familiar
and new
and strange, but beautiful
twisting around me
like the music you sometimes hear in
the dead of night,
lilting and faint and full of potential
hinting at a life that’s hidden from you
so i listened harder, wondering
what your voice might tell me.

when we met there were no sparks
there was just waiting
and finding
and knowing
and not knowing
and fear
and safety
and the ground shifting and crumbling
beneath my feet.

two pairs of sneakers and a sprinkle of stars

i’ll trace maps in your skin

during sleep-soaked

purple nights

plotting out the paths of

all the places

we’ll go adventuring

 

while you look at me

and tell me you see the

stars under my eyelashes

bright and clear enough

to show us the way

 

 

so with our starry eyes and our map-inked skin

we’ll disappear together

into forever.

dream thoughts

the sheets are crinkly between my
toes, and
your shoulder blades stick out
like fairy wings
and your freckles make pretty shapes
across your nose
and moonlight is splashed across you
like milk
and your mouth is open
and you’re drooling
and your face is kind of squished

and i wonder if i’ve ever told you
that you’re beautiful when you sleep.

the discovery

this endless morning made my

eyes ache and i found that

lying in bed doesn’t really solve

much at all.

 

and endless words tore up my mind

[the worst kind of words, too – ugly

wrapped up in beauty

the kind that used to find their way out of

your twisted lips]

and by the time i forced them

away, my brain was in shreds

 

and an endless thumping exploded

behind my eyes

and through my veins

rattling my bones, and

chattering my teeth

and i couldn’t make it stop

no matter how much

muddy tea i drank from clinking china.

 

but today i finally looked out

the window, and

the sun was beautiful and

the wind was gusting like it had

somewhere better to be

and the clouds were drifting slowly by

like in a miyazaki movie i saw once.

so maybe i’ll go outside, because

 

this endless morning made my

eyes ache

and, darling, i found that lying in bed

doesn’t really solve much at all.

the willowy girl and the secret keeper

“I think there were skeletons? Yeah, they were dancing around a fire. And there were weird demon things with horns. And it smelled like smoke and trees and spices.”

 

“You can smell things in your dreams?”

 

“Of course.” She tilted her head, frowning at him. “You can’t?”

 

“I don’t think anyone can. I don’t think that’s even possible.”

 

“It is. It definitely is.”

 

“You might be crazy.”

 

She exhaled sharply, her face twisting into a terrible imitation of anger. “I think you’re just jealous.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Mmhm,” she nodded, confident in her assessment. “Because I get these intricate, beautiful dreams, and yours are just boring. Boring, boring, boring.”

 

He stared at her, a secret smile playing on his lips. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen; that she made his blood feel electric; that if his dreams were as intricate as hers, he’d smell her lilac perfume, stare into her stormy eyes, take her on dreamland adventures. He wanted to tell her that her lips were too red for her face, and her eyelashes were too long for her eyes, and her slender nose was too crooked to be as adorable as it was.

 

He wanted to tell her that she didn’t make sense. He wanted to tell her that sometimes he ached for her. He wanted to tell her that maybe his nightdreams weren’t as beautiful as hers, but his daydreams certainly were.

 

“What are you staring at?” she asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

 

He grinned a secret-keeper’s grin. “Just thinking how crazy you are.”

 

She threw an empty juice box at him, but he continued unfazed. “Schizophrenic, maybe. Do you hear voices?”

 

“Shut up.” But she was laughing, and he laughed too, and then he asked her to tell him the rest of her dreams, thinking that maybe, someday, he would tell her his.

the ocean doesn’t comfort me like it should

the water looked like angry

hands, clawing at the sand

leaving marks

like fingernails

 

and the wind screamed

softly

like an angry voice i couldn’t hear

and the seagulls didn’t dare

dive

 

and my lungs, i think,

froze a little bit

because the stormy sea and

your eyes

 

the screaming wind and your voice

 

the desperate waves

and your fingers

 

i went to the ocean the day you left

and all i could see was you.