"This is what I know:
A tree is still a tree even if it is burning.
God might not be real but also he might be, so, there’s that.
Faith cannot be a person.
Faith is often a person.
Everyone I’ve ever kissed has been a mistake, and I am okay with that.
My love is going to be a fist unclenching;
honey being poured over a sharpened
spear so that they can taste me
in the wound.
Gravel makes my skin look like a pathway. When I fall, I pretend I’m coming home.
Bees are necessary.
I meant for this to be something more poetic, but it’s just a list of facts.
It is possible to love someone without losing yourself.
The ocean is still largely unexplored.
There is no way of proving that life
doesn’t exist on other planets and
in other universes.
Hawaii is the only state in America
that has its own language.
How beautiful it is, to belong to something
and still be your own."
"Maybe I am my own happening.
Maybe I am the beginning of the story,
before you walk in with your bad jokes
and your three years of silence
scattered across the turnpike.
I am trying to think about the moment
that I started crying, and I think it
was when I realized that all of my poems
were about you.
But maybe they weren’t.
Maybe I was just drawing you in between
the line breaks because I was lonely
and didn’t know how else to fill in the moments.
Maybe I am my own poem.
Maybe I am the reason my hands shake,
why I can’t say no to you even when
you aren’t asking me for anything.
Maybe I am the bad days.
Maybe I am my own sun.
Maybe I am in charge of my own undoing, of my own healing.
Who taught me to thank the ones
who didn’t want to stay?
Who taught me that you were something
to hurt about?
Maybe it was me.
I think it was.
Maybe I want to rest my tongue in
my own mouth and maybe I don’t
actually need anything from you.
I could be the moment it all started.
I could be responsible for the violins
in my throat, for the piano in
Maybe you were never the music in me.
Maybe I have always been singing."