You asked how to write like I do.
Oh darling, you don't know the impossibilities of what you asked.
You must not speak, for fear that the water and blood would pour out of your lungs from the too many times you've carried those who only wanted to drown.
You must cover your hands with the charcoal of young, smiling faces that you want to be a part of so so badly
You must breathe in the cinnamon and vanilla extract as you make cookies, because we have been taught to overcome our pain and grief by overwhelming ourselves in service
You must know to laugh when you screw up and smile in the mirror instead of grimace, because you don't want to hate yourself like everybody else hates themselves
To write like me, you must write of both fear and clarity, sunflowers and salt water
Hope and victory.
Oh darling, this is why I call it impossible.
Life is a balance of sweet and sour, but you,
You carry your father's pride like you would a hairpin
With your straight A's and his mother's love, Your voice that shakes the house like a visit from an angel
If you wrote like that, I believe your stories would taste of lemon and lightening and sunlit freckles
But instead, you fill your throat with chalky pills
And drop the pen.