and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same way a soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger. We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.

The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.

Lately I've been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and how I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be. And when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: before I die, I want to be somebody's favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.

My heart is a parachute that has never opened in time.

I thought, "The flowers, save the flowers..." I never thought for a second we wouldn't save the people

We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.