by Anna Gionet
every word that frightens you is just
ink on paper,
and every star you see is just a light.
and i know that those chemicals in your brain
are telling you
to hold back,
but the night sky isn’t going anywhere,
i promise.
not today, at least.
and even if you forget the words to that
song you used to love
as a thirteen-year-old,
the one you sung in the car with the friend
whose number you lost,
off-key and careless —
well,
somewhere there’s a child laughing at how much
it feels like home.
sadness isn’t infinite,
and neither are you,
despite our best intentions
(and our worst).
i know that peace doesn’t always come easy
and maybe some days
it doesn’t come at all.
but there is a reprise in the second act,
there is a melody that you will remember
when you’re
gasping for air.
regrettably, the painful part doesn’t get any less
bloody
but there will be a hand to hold in the end,
one day
you will find the gentle warmth
of selecting brutal honesty,
is much more copacetic
than you thought.
oh,
how beautiful,
how
wondrously surprising
it is to see.
Anna Gionet is a New Jersey native currently living just outside of Denver, Colorado. Working as the SEO Content Manager for Shane Co., she also writes short stories and poetry in her free time. Previous works have been published in Cosmographia Books and Wingless Dreamer, among others.