Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but
nothing is infinite,
not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.
When your parents tell you that they don’t understand you, loosen your fists. When the boy two rows over and four chairs back whispers something to the girl beside him, relax your jaw. When you find yourself packing up some clothes, a toothbrush and a pen, stretch your legs. When the girl in the library nursing a coffee with two sugars no cream makes eyes at you, calm your heart. Take it for a walk. Remind yourself that people will always be a boundary, a constant, a something you have to deal with, and it’s not learning how to fight through them. It’s learning to step around and past them. I’ve been meaning to tell you, to write you, to sing to you, to bring you the moon on a silver platter with no fork, no knife, no spoon. Dig in. Eat with your hands. Let her dust powder your chin. The caterpillar says, Today I will eat. I will eat until I am full. The butterfly that emerges from the cocoon retains nothing from their previous life as a leaf-eater, except that his favorite color is green.
Kristina H., “Metamorphosis” (via wisdom-justiceandlove)