I.

My knees dig into the hardwood floors

My hands rest against the bed frame. 

             Yet I am crying on the pavement again.

   Palms pressed against the tarmac.

      Screaming only for the sake of being heard.

You didn’t tell me that the sidewalk in the middle of November  

                would feel so cold against these rough hands.

You didn’t tell me that being 17 would mean tearing myself apart

                    over and over again, begging to be rebuilt.

You didn’t tell me that I am too young to mourn a life I’ve never lived.

To grieve a body I have never left. 

II.

 In another universe

 I am a bluebird taking flight.

In another universe

 I am a wide-eyed dog panting in a garden. 

              Give me the brush and I’ll paint myself simply.

Only three strokes against a canvas. 

                      I wait for something in this life to 

make me feel simple. 

        I wait for something in this life

Until my knees are bruised and bleeding

and I am tired of waiting.

III.

Only during the first snow of the season.

I  learned to only believe in the things I can see.

Where I could not deny the harsh reality of the cold 

Nipping at my skin.

I know now that I should no longer heave questions to the pavement.

To ask only of the things that can answer.

I know now that I cannot be simple if 

I am as intricate as all that I have seen.

   Every snowflake,

Every birdsong.