whoever told us that being alive was easy
lied to us
i like to think that
you saved my life
or at the very least
taught me how to use my hands
and if i learned how to look
where to find my voice
and together we discovered poetry
moving inside of us
an unrecognizable force
aching to be freed
and on our best days,
we could write sonnets to our
ethereal freedom
and on your worst days,
we could find the line breaks
in the scars up and down your arms
all the tiny and powerful odes to
how frightening it felt
to be figuring it all out
and
how powerful it was
to be salvaging our youth
from the small fragments
we mined from the wreckage
and when i couldn't bare
to go home anymore
you made me a bed
on your bedroom floor
and for far too long
you were the only person
who would have noticed
if i was gone
if my life was a poem,
you would live
in the space between the words
in all of the places where
i didn't say what i meant
but
i still hope someone heard it