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At two years old,
bullets were costume jewelry for cute little cowgirl outfits
            and capguns were all you
knew,

But all that changed two years ago when you challenged
            God to a game of chicken in your parents bedroom
cuz you wanted to know
if the rumors were true...

If it really was a painless death when done correctly
until you realized you didn’t really know what correctly
            was
and you had to choose.

What if it kicks?

What if you lose?

Too high,
and you end up like that guy you read about in Psych class,
Phinneas Gage,
an emotional wreck, with a hole in your head,
a member of the walking shoulda been dead.

Too low,
and a hole in your throat leaks a helluva lot slower than
            your breath
when the power gets disconnected to your head.

Just right,
and you’ll be a Sleeping Beauty that no prince’s kiss could
            ever twist into a happy ending.

And two weeks from now,
the only thing to matter will be your breathing,
cuz believe it or not,
someone will need you.

As for this moment,
it’s enough that we’re here
and fear of the future bleeds a finger galaxy of soft
            fluorescence between us.

Because tomorrow,
the men will come to steal your dreams,
sell them back to you with small pox,
then tell you,
" Death is the only way you’ll ever be free.”

But at 16,
no one knew the sound of your name could rearrange the
            ridges of God’s fingertips
into all the evidence needed to convict Him of
            imperfection.

Could tattoo hunger to stone bellies.

Could paint a phrase every subtle shade of brilliant

            beautiful
written in irridescent ink across continents of thought so
            forgotten
that our tongues have lost the ability to properly
            pronounce them.
So, they stumble over our teeth and mix with air to cross
            our lips and say,
" I love you.”
Instead of saying what we really mean.

I mean:

Don’t leave me.

Don’t leave without me.

Don’t leave me here alone.

Don’t let us fall into forever just remembering instead of
           living.

Let’s go home.

Heaven doesn’t need another angel,
this world needs another poem written in the rhythm of
           you.
So, let’s split seconds like quarter notes halved into
           eighths
then divide them by two and compose the perfect tune for
           you to breathe to.

Then let’s steal a hundred-carat ruby and paint the sun the
same color red,
so when it beats down
it will feel like Hope is kissing our heads.

Let’s taunt the ones too busy killing dreams to raise their
           own,

the ones so full of wanting they’ve forgotten how to live,

the ones so lost in memory, they can’t remember how to
           forgive.

I wanna believe.

I wanna be found in the pocket of your kiss,
like the courage it takes to capture bliss,
like decision means action,
like satisfaction hints that maybe you didn’t do all that you
           could’ve, but did enough
to call it done,
like today implies tomorrow is another never,
like the space between now and never comes down to this.

I mean:

I’d miss you.

Cuz I guarantee you in the next two weeks,
someone will need you,
and it’s probably,

gonna be me.