When you think about
feet, I hope you remember
all of the places they’ve led you.
I hope you remember following,
I hope each blister, and each broken toe,
have healed by now but will always
be looked upon fondly, for they
were attained nobly.

In your shiny boots, I watch as
your feet lead you
to where you belong,
to whom you belong with,
and I slip on my own to meet
you there.

I wonder
if you’re watching me.
The way I sit, my legs like
pipecleaners entwined.
The way I sometimes
stare too long,
at scrubbed white walls
too bright to look at.
I wonder if you notice
the trivial things like I do,
the way the children
hug white roses to their chests,
looking on with wide eyes,
the old men waiting for their wives
with feathery hair
like cotton, white against
stark pink
cheeks.

I will not never not
try to steal from
you the golden light
inside, but rather
stand by you
and stand with you,
wishing for you
to draw out the darkness
in me as I promise
myself that always, it has
always been you.

You are trying to rewrite him
into the present, into
other people, into
places he does not belong.

You must remember
long nights with gilded notebooks
and spiral ink pens,
looping your name at the
tops of lined pages.

You must remember
all of the poems
you wrote,
holding your finger
in between the pages afterwards
to keep your place.

But know this--
like a bookmark he
sticks out, placed carefully
in a spot best left unkept.
One day, you might return
and want to flip through the memories.
You must remember
that it’s better to forget.

He does not belong here, between
lined paper and a warm embrace, he
does not deserve your words,
you must remember.

With feigned ease,
pluck the bookmark
and allow the pages to
feather shut.

Turn to the beginning;
the first sheet will be blank.
With a steady hand
write your name at the
top with a spiral ink pen,
and breathe deep as you begin
again.

Caught in
the middle of
growing up and staying young,
stuck between fighting with my brother
and catching tears in a glass
jar to remind myself that I
am still allowed
to cry,

fixed in this mess of
being 18 years young,
of signing waivers to
allow you to sit
beside me and hold my hand,

I watch the nurse clean the needle
with careful precision and I know,
she is somebody else’s mother.

I am not yet ready to leave this here.
I am loved, and loving, and
young, but growing.
Time waits for no child,
and like the years that
left in minutes,
I would never wish any more
of this precious time away.

But today,
in the middle of these thoughts,
the nurse slides the needle
into my arm and

it is so easy to 
release your hand.