I find myself
Writing about the boy
The one who was six feet under most days
Most days
I find myself searching
For needles in haystacks
For sand dollars in Ohio
For boys
Who can handle my sacred heart
I am sacred
I am teaching myself
That it's okay to write about him
The boy
The one who was six feet under most days
The one with blades for hands
And nails for teeth
The crooked one
Who tore my straight-lace to shreds
Who knows every mark on my hands
Knows every spot on my face
Knows the soles of my shoes
Knows the grit under my fingernails
The boy i once called broken
He cradled my apathy between his collarbones
Taught me that it's okay
To just feel lost sometimes
But he also taught me
That when you don't do anything to fix yourself
You never learn how to fix yourself
You never really build yourself
The same boy
The one who was six feet under most days
Taught me the beauty behind dead flowers
Taught me the gorgeous sacrifice of wilting
Had me entirely convinced
Sallow and sunken
Were totally in style
Had me entirely convinced
That gray was the new black
Had me entirely convinced
That any problem could be fixed with a bottle of vodka and some anxiety medication
But I watched him
Tear himself to shreds
And I learned
That if you self medicate,
It won't fix anything
It'll just make you high and sad
He
Was high and sad
Ninety percent of the time we were together
And when it's all said and done
Flying
Isn't nearly as great
As it's cracked up to be.
