you have talked to the air more than you have said things to your mother. your brother hates your guts. you have spent so much of your life feeling insignificant that you can not fathom how your departure could ever hurt anyone. you kept a knife after your name. every time someone you love leaves, you break a piece of it. you haven't changed the dead flowers in your room. you haven't heard the song you loved when you were fourteen in years now. you don't allow yourself to feel holy. you leave shrines and no one asks why. your prayers are your rage rooms now. your eyes don't even speak of you. you don't let yourself believe there could be anyone to love you. you are a vacant work of tapestry and i love watching the void.
the air has told me tales of you playing in the muddy rain. your brother still holds the book you gifted him on his 11th birthday. you have broken my heart twice when you tried to leave but look, here i am, at your doorstep. it's an ungodly 1:30 am and the dog has been barking in rhythm now. i have new tulips in my hand. open the door. let me tell you your eyes were already baptized when you helped the woman you didn't know, collect the persimmons in her bag. what can i do to make you believe that i love you?
