Most, if not all
held their hands up as children
and fired.

I don't know why,
but I do know I still do it;
Am I still a child?

Guns are dangerous, unless ce n'est pas un pistolet.
Fingers aren't dangerous, even quand ils sont un pistolet.
I can be dangerous, but je ne suis pas un enfant.

I've been stuck.
I've been stuck...
at a part in this book...
I've been stuck
at a part in this story I've been writing,
because I really didn't know where to go.
Obvious statement. Whatever.

I am surrounded.
I am surrounded by pieces of writing, and stories, and literature, and people, and poems that inspire me to fight.
I am surrounded by stories, and love,
and I've looked to them...
I am surrounded by love, and I've been looking for a way forward.

I found it.
I found the path.
I found a path.
I found the story that I needed to hear, and feel...
I found a story that lead me to the place where I belong.
I found a story.
I found a love that helped me realize what to write next.

Is it wrong I want to end it so soon?
Is it wrong to end it so soon?
Is it wrong to end a story?

I want to be pretty.
Not in the way magazines do it
where everything is tucked, twisted, tuned and polished
because I am not an ideal.
And I will never be the Mona Lisa
with a coyness that leaves people wondering
what I've smelled, touched, tasted in
every moment of my life,
because I am not a treasure.
I want to be the kind of pretty
where my little sister can see a galaxy of pride in my eyes
and know she's ten times more beautiful
than I could ever be
(or at least she'll know I think so.)
I want to be pretty in the way that
strangers don't know if I'm kind or
powerful or
manipulative
and are timidly curious that maybe I'm all three.
I want to be pretty in the way that
I am all three, and so much more.
I want to be pretty
so that when I'm older
I can be half as beautiful as my mom.
I want to be pretty so that
my friends see honesty in the corners of my eyes
and security in my fingertips
and hold my gaze with evenness as my equals.
I want to be pretty,
the kind of pretty where you bring me home,
we reflect each other like lighted mirrors
and your mom will smile that knowing smile
because in three years you'll want to see a ring on my finger
and she knows her baby will do it in five.
And I want to be pretty so when my hair is damp,
my eyeliner cakes my face like charcoal
and a towel is wrapped around my body...
When I look in that mirror I see fireflies and lightning
and not an abandoned house
in a quiet street
with the attic light left on.

I ride on the back of a lonely elephant
and he tells me there is no shame in loss
and suffering is brief.
I trust him
for he would remember.

There is gospel over hill and yonder
songs of a god whose name has not graced my lips
since I was young enough to believe
true love conquered all
and ugliness was apparent in blink and gait.

It says to love
because love is the most beautiful gift He gave us.
I shake my head, such foolishness -
trust is my greatest treasure
for it is the only way to deify someone.

I wish no metamorphosis to be your God
when you open your secrets and fiddle with your nightmares,
for I only wish to take your hands
cradle your heart
and kiss your eyes, breathe your soul.

I want to print letters on paper that bend to form the shape of your hips
with ink that fades to match the veins in your wrists;
sonnets to make the bard weep
and ****** queens put love before country.

You should be reminded every day
that when the light glints off your irises in bleary wakefulness
a morning glory trembles in envy;
that your skin is the perfect canvas for a masterpiece
simply because you absorb colour;
brightness;
life
with each step you take
and hold it in your pores for the world to gaze.

I want to taste cigarettes on your tongue one day
and cool mint the next;
on the third you can hold me in place
and remind me what it’s like to be grounded,
then ******* away when you breathe laughter on my neck.

I want to feel your flighty touch
between the blades of my shoulders
and know your fear and courage
as you mend my splintered glass vertebrae.

I could give you mined stars,
but they’d only dim in the presence of your heart
(but let’s face it; I can only afford zirconia).
Instead I will give you islands of the purest sand
and the clearest waters,
where you can stand on hope without fear of falling
and forget the flavour of defeat;
mountains to climb when determination to achieve
finally prevails over the comfort of your shell;
libraries that solve all your dilemmas
yet leave you asking more questions than when you entered.

I will give you the world, for you have given mine.