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I pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.

Stephanie Briar

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Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.
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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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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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You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.
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I pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.
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To the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.
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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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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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I erected cities with adoration on my tongue and you burnt mine down in the wake of your love.
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If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.
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Light finds you just as I once did: an accident that is no accident.
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In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.
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Trauma has deep roots indeed, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pull the weeds.
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