Odd

I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do is remind ourselves over and over and over: Other people feel this too.

Touch me ‘til my ribs become piano keys, ‘til there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs.

… my heart is a parachute that has never    opened in time

“We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.”

I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.

Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.