In my 19 years I have figured out nearly nothing about life;
I have not reached the merit of eminence,
I have not learned the manner of clearing the brute from my throat, or how to scrape your name out of my veins
I have not obtained a medium for defining my oblivion of what it means to have red hands:
When you ask why my voice shakes like an earthquake I still shrug my square shoulders;
I can’t explain something I don’t understand myself.
You can paint over my skin,
But I will always be.
I have flowers inside my chest and I have learned to let them dance out the corners of my mouth;
I have not figured out how to be human,
but I have figured out how to be happy.
There are oceans tied to the backs of my teeth,
And every hand I hold ruins me–
You asked for what sleeps beneath my bones, you asked for it whole;
So I left it in your mouth for you to answer all the questions I’m not strong enough to speak out loud.
I handed you all the rivers I grew between my fingers,
In hope that your hands would be strong enough to hold them
You swallowed everything– my laughter, the heaviness under my eyes, the nightmares that separated my bones with their vast bodies
You carried it all on your fragile spine;
You left so I could breathe again.

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