I look at pictures of myself ten years ago
and wish I could warn her,
tell her that her blind heart holds
more faith than a mustard seed
in shadows that will one day
be stitched to their owners’
ankles. Tell her we say things
without a notebook analysis.
Tell her that we do things before
our bodies feel the bone crush.
Tell her that nothing is unforgivable,
tell her — try to make us both believe —
that the world will keep turning,
that the air will swallow her throat
while she tries to breathe.
Tell her that while she does breathe,
she will feel the growing stem in her neck,
Singing,
How can you even begin to stand up
when you’ve never deserved it before?