This is my heartbeat like yours, it is a hatchet It can build a house or tear one down.

We're boxed in and labeled before we're ever able to speak who we believe we are or who we dream we'll become.

Last night I saw your ghost pedalling a bicycle with a basket towards a moon as full as my heavy head and I wanted nothing more than to be sitting in that basket like ET with my glowing heart glowing right through my chest and my glowing finger pointing in the direction of our home.

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

I write because it is while I'm writing that I feel most connected to why we're here. I write because silence is a heavy weight to carry. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write to let the air in. I write as a practice of listening.

You panic button collector. You clock of beautiful ticks. You run out the door if you need to. You flock to the front row of your own class. You feather everything until you know you can always, always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay. Everything you feel is okay.

Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don't you dare let go of my hand!