But what people don’t understand about
scraped elbows and bruised knees
is that they fade away into
a chapped memory
cracked and formless,
a floating emotion surrounding
a graying image.
What people don’t understand
about the imprints of
jagged words on paper skin,
glass names pressed against
our chests by
hurricane tongues
is that they are a storm
that takes years to clear away.
So you lied when you told me
that the biggest threat
were sticks and stones,
but not to worry
about what breathing hurricanes and
cardboard laughter
can do to me.
I want you to tell your children
to watch the colors of
the words that leave their mouths,
I want you to not sigh,
or admit “kids can be cruel”
I want you to allow the tears,
to hold the rocking body,
Stop giving the wrong warnings,
tell your children
about the storms that take years to clear away,
the silent crying in the bathroom,
the trembling fingers,
not the sticks and stones
that break our bones,
but only leave scars out on the outside.