“This isn’t poetry anymore,
and it hasn’t been for a long time.
This is what surviving sounds like
after spending days in a gas chamber,
always choking on air
and falling in love with it at the same time.
This is breathing for people
with crumbling lungs.
And on the days your hands
are flying kites tangled by the wind
and your lips are pins to the grenades
you only ever throw at yourself,
you must choose to inhale.
I know there are ticking bombs
buried underneath beautiful things,
but there are also pulsing hearts
rising from the ugliness of it all.
I cannot be there to hang lanterns
every time your world gets dark,
but I will teach you where to find your own light.
So, stop running from the howling wolves,
and start racing them to the moon, baby.
Your fears can’t beat when you have already
raised your fists to their shaking hands.
The shadows that dance are just broken
love letters trying to reach the sun again.
Always remember that
you are better than your worst apologies.
And it’s up to you to stop being sorry.”