I tell myself I cannot help
this sinking feeling in my chest
nestling next to excitement.
Tomorrow I return to you again.
I know you will hold me
like I am not fragile,
and the June sun will burn us both,
a quiet, sweet aching.
I also know that I remember too much.
You and I underneath streetlights,
barely 16, looking for something
we wouldn’t understand until it was
too late—we were daughters of
circumstance, mania in our blood.
We are still young. Our wounds still heal,
so why do I feel like this history in me
festers and rots? Where I see decay,
You see rebirth; friend, I am still me.
I am still the child drowned in the rainstorm,
hair in pigtails, crowned in sunflowers
that you picked for me—cracked, bruised,
divine ribs. You know the story.
I still look to our stars to ask the question
neither of us could ever answer.
What really happened?