Act my age? What the fuck is that, “act my age”? What do I care how old I am? The Ocean is old as fuck. It will still drown your ass with vigor.
Today we’re going to go on a class trip! *hands out acid*
and I promise to kiss you so hard,
you’ll have no choice but to take their advice.
I have been swallowing down dandelion seeds in the hopes
that one day I’ll breathe them back into something
wishful enough for you to come here and find me again.
And maybe we’ll both finally learn how to stop
speaking train station,
how to stop whispering anything that sounds like
rattling tracks leading away
and feet stretched out to empty seats
so no one has the chance to get too close.
Maybe we’ll make our own language and name it
after the poems we weren’t brave enough to write
that summer underneath the crying moon.
We should stop writing to the dead so much.
We should stop blaming the lightning
for setting us on fire when we spent our entire lives
singing love songs to the sky,
letting it blush so hard, everything turned into flames.
We aren’t refugees anymore
we need to learn when to stop chasing
freedom after it’s already tapped us on the back.
And I know your feet are hungry,
And I know your skin is starved,
but please come back and remember
how I never let you fall asleep on an empty stomach.
Please come back
and let us both hold each other until we
tremble into something that will last longer
than it takes for you to read this.