G,

“Boy with the caramel dripping from his lips. Boy with the heart like a tombstone, but not as a monument of death, but of the resurrection that comes after. Boy with the hands of a worker. Not construction. Hands of a man who has built his own skeleton frame by frame, bone by bone, vein by minuscule vein; I wonder if he knows that I can see the trying part of him. Boy with the mother who passed before she could meet her granddaughter. Boy with the eyes like a slaughterhouse: by definition, you are a haunting ground– (may my ghost follow you)– rephrase: by definition, you are a land of holy, a land of nourishment. Boy with the salt on his tongue. Boy that faked being my boyfriend for the sake of my own sanity when being faced by a beggar in the heart of Richmond. Boy that does not know how to let hands go. Boy who pulls back when I push away. Boy who uses no words to describe what’s screaming within his chest. Boy who abandons his car at a red light just so he can kiss me through my open window. Boy who claims sociopath. Boy who smokes Turkish cigarettes. Boy who kisses like there’s a volcano erupting in his chest, and his lips (oh, his lips), the lava spilling unto the land of my body. Boy without a phone. Boy who has me write my number in the center of his Deftones tattoo with a sharpie. Boy who leaves me feeling an ache in my chest indescribable. Boy I haven’t spoken to since.”

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.”