Her loneliness is so brutal,
It is beautiful.
It has its own language.
—Cynthia Cruz, from “Plush”
My sadness is not
a cut for you to bandage,
and it is not
a bruise for you to kiss.
I am not waiting
for you to save me.
I am hoping you will love me
while I rescue myself.
You have yourself convinced that you are the old sweater
hiding in the back of your closet. -
You know, that place where whispers go
when no one hears them,
and they collect dust in the shoebox
next to your school project from the 2nd grade.
But I think instead that you are the thrift shop find
that fits just right.
I wish that your knees would stop telling each other
that they are not worthy of worship.
You are so much more holy
than the wounds you kissed into your walls
& your hips & your wrists
when your fists were lonely.
I want you to know that you should never be lonely.
Because when you are clinging white knuckle to your voice box
for fear of fucking up the notes,
I will forever be sitting in the front row
holding up a mirror
to reflect the Jackson Pollock masterpiece of your eyes
and to remind you
that you don’t necessarily need to walk in a straight line.
You will still get where you are going.
And I hope that you will find a girl
who makes you feel going, going, gone -
in the best of ways
and that she keeps you warm.
Just remember dear,
secondhand doesn’t mean thrown away.
It just means