“All through the depression, I was the soft toy in the hands of a baby with sharp teeth.”

Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.

Maybe water is not entirely lost when soaked into sand. Maybe it finds a better resting place to call home; and I hope she did too.

After healing I’ll run back to her – of course this poem demands a brutal ending!

It is my dying wish to travel around the world; to feel this hurt in a slightly different way!

Sometimes even in pain we smile to the world until we think we’re dying.

The broken worlds we hide inside; that’s how we start to die!

Most days missing her is my only choice between death and dying.

Often times the language is different; by which I mean, I love her, and it’s the only stammer I’ve ever known.

I’ve seen it, I know it too; love still dances in the fire after the rescue.

I forget how our story started; but these days I’m finding the missing pieces behind every exhale, where I left the words standing with sore feet.

I can feel the dust of her skin in my skin; and I think maybe that means these bones of mine have grown weary of crying too.

This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.

Please the night’s cold, not her name again!

In the end not every bleeding thing dies; at least, not like a paper plays in fire.

I don’t think the world is ever getting better; I guess maybe people just find new ways to hide what kills them.

I guess we all understand the love language fine; but maybe truth is we’re just too fluent in goodbyes.

Your greatest self lies within the hands of your inner child- the you who used to chase their shadows instead run from them.

When I was a kid, we said that we were precluded from going to certain neighborhoods because of the color of our skin Now the neighborhoods are the neighborhoods of ideas, youre not supposed to be there because of the color of your skin.

My friend has a baby. I’m recording all the noises he makes so later I can ask him what he meant.

Moon child with your galaxy heart, cool your heels and stay awhile.

Be bold, child. You are rare and you are brazen light.

If a mute kid swears, should his mother wash his hands with soap?

How can such scary looking parents create something so cute?

Kids made fun of me because I was a slow learner, because I was hyperactive, because of a lot of things. Running gave me confidence.