The first time I held a firefly in my palms I thought that his body would explode all over my paper skin;
I thought I could hear its heartbeat reverberate against the bones in my fingertips that I had broken three times in nine years.
The first time I held a firefly in my palms, my body felt like a warzone.
The smell of smoke and people’s mouths forming words I could not understand
patching up the gunshot wounds your words left in me.
When you held my hands against your face as we listened to the sound of the moon falling to sleep and the slowing heart beats of the cicadas below our feet; it was the first time, that I truly listened to a voice that wasn’t humans.
You taught me how to hold the keys of an ebony piano beneath the blades of my fingers, and hear every sound she could make without pushing my fingers down
You taught me how to differentiate between the stars above my head, Ursa Minor dancing up my spine as you spoke to me.
You taught me that sometimes the ocean screams so loud that nobody can hear it,
you taught me that sometimes, people are like this too.
The first time I held a firefly in my palms, I swear I could hear the universe growing inside my eardrums.
I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of your breathing,
I closed my eyes and imagined the earth was made of glass, that it swallowed me whole:
It was morning and my heart had grown so thin-skinned like sheets on a hotel mattress,
I held my knees against my chest as well as your laughter in my throat;
I heard you so much louder back then.