This is where the mountains crumbled
for the first time.
This is where we found a pile of rocks
and pretended we knew something about rebuilding.
Are you still sorry about any of it?
Let’s forget about the candles we left on all night.
Let’s forget about all those clouds we ran from.
Baby, the storm was us the whole time,
and you have to promise to tell me when the
monsters stop showing up here.
I can’t remember the last time I was destroyed,
but I have a feeling it was all in my head.
Maybe these poems were never about how many
people got their hands on my heart,
but whose blood was on my own fingertips.
I don’t know what the war tasted like,
but I remember the graveyard after.
If I survived before, it wasn’t the right way.
If I survived before,
it means I can do it again differently.
Do these pieces of wood everywhere
means someone is building is something or
someone is destroying something?
Maybe the important thing is that it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the important thing is that it is our choice
what to make of it.