BreatheI’ve known how to breathe all my life,at least that’s what I’ve been told.No one taught meno one showed me howI just opened my mouth andbreathe in,breathe out.If I never had to learn how to livewhy does it sometimes feelso goddamn hard to fill my lungsand let go of everythinglike I’ve been born to do?Why did no one tell me about the earthand how it lives too,about how when I press my ear to the dirtI can hear it wheezing andcrying all at once?Someone once told me that,someone once said that the Earth is aliveand it inhales children’s footstepsand exhales the trees whispersand sighs the soft sounds of love.Someone once told me that.Now that they’re gone it’s as ifthe trembling of the ground hasceased and my lungs suddenlyjust squeezeand everything that I’ve knownhas leftand now, it’s a struggle to breathe.As a child I didn’t know how hard my lungs workedI didn’t know what they had to
Picnics With Youmud stained feetcrossed, tangled andcherry tip fingersbrushed away.
A CreatorI know myself so well, I don’t think I know myself at all.An introduction is difficult because there’s so many layers to a human, I wouldn’t know where to start. If I told you anything, it would probably be the most surface, typical things, I’d bore you to death. I could tell you about how I’m allergic to my own cat, how I hate sand with a burning passion, about how my worst nightmare is talking in front of people. You might argue that those things make me who I am, but I don’t know that anyone cares. I can try to dig deep but really, I’m not even sixteen, what do I know about myself?All I know is I stopped sleeping a long time ago.I’m not an insomniac, to clarify. It’s just that everything seemed too much, all the words, the music, the fresh pages of a book, the worn down green graphite pencils. How could you possibly go to sleep when there was so much to be made, drawn, created, written? The year I found this out, I was ruined.