for the chin-up days

“I butterfly it like trout. Slide my knife through the mountain ridge of little bones. Lay it flat. Turn it over and over. And yes, I cried cleaning what we had. Found that exhaustion is looking hard for the hesitation in your voice like it is biological specimen. Or evidence. Like you becoming another thing not loving me back is part of some terrible crime scene.”

“History builds itself close to water. It always has. It pulls civilizations in, tugging at them like magnetic fields for migrating butterflies. And they follow. Like I followed that body of water with your name. Praised it in the drought. In the desperation. I built cities there. Had my skin in it. Called it love until the moon heard me. But I didn’t know. Didn’t know that when the big one comes the only way to make it out alive is not to be there in the first place? That when you see walls made of water, run?”

“My great-grandmother loses me to her mind. I think of her memory like slow-cooked meat, a thing that falls too easy off the bone. And then wonder if that is fate. If that is how all tender things must go.”

“You are not weak. You are full of spines and wars, scars and fire. You are fighting to carry a heart so heavy even Atlas cannot hold it up. There is all of this quiet, drowning kind of falling apart inside you and yet you are still breathing. You are still here. You are still here.”

“My great-grandmother loses me to her mind. I think of her memory like slow-cooked meat, a thing that falls too easy off the bone. And then wonder if that is fate. If that is how all tender things must go.”

“You still occupy more spaces than you could ever deserve.”

“Your absence is the worst kind of wake-up call.”

“Don’t chase people. Be yourself, do your own thing and work hard. The right people - the ones who really belong in your life - will come to your. And stay.”

“It is a privilege to have seen the flowers in you when you choose to bury them for everyone else.”

“I butterfly it like trout. Slide my knife through the mountain ridge of little bones. Lay it flat. Turn it over and over. And yes, I cried cleaning what we had. Found that exhaustion is looking hard for the hesitation in your voice like it is biological specimen. Or evidence. Like you becoming another thing not loving me back is part of some terrible crime scene.”

“I think you love me the way you find your old journal in the corner of your attic. You forget that you had them, but you’re still smiling as you reread every page. I’m a reminder of someone you used to be or what could have been.”