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I count the stars from whence we came. I name them all for you; my flame.

Stephanie Briar

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I am strong. My heart still hopes. My mind still dreams. My soul still craves pouring energy into everything that I love.
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Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.
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The pain of your memory is sharp enough to be felt the nails raked along my back by somebody else.
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Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.
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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
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Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.
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In my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.
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I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.
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“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.
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As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
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How do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?
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