you may not feel wanted or needed even if someone openly tells you so, they call that trust issues. with yourself. with others. so you wait. you watch. you detail. you color outside of the black lines. you melt crayons on rocks. you smile into the people that counts and sometimes, they leave. so you stop waiting, so you stop watching, so you write down the details, so you go back to coloring inside the lines, so you melted your heart on top of those rocks and you crack a smile and tell yourself, baby, i told you so. you may not feel wanted or needed even if they came back and prove their loyalty and consistency; they’re five minutes too late and you’re already strained from your blood stained t-shirt, your knuckles wrote your poems inside of tree hollows and the scrapes you scrapped from your smile, it’s a missing puzzle piece. you pick up poetry because finding the complexity of those simple clouds were easier than thinking about why they forgot you that day and you sit and you wait. and you sit and you wait and you sit and you wait and you sit and you sit and you wait and wait and wait and wait and wait– baby, no one is coming. it’s just you and the cloud’s repeated smiles. i think you fell in love with poetry that day. when the bench spoke to you about the warmth of your loneliness and how familiar it felt. being a stationary piece of man-made utility, you made peace with yourself at such a young age, we all have made mistakes, we mold ourselves into pens that never run dry and my blue veins may be bitten more times than a rotten apple has worms, but if i saw you on that bench and asked you about the time, you’d always respond that it’s half past heartache and the spaces between your smile and hands were in need of a hug. my father once lost me in an arcade and he lost me yet again in the same day on a beach, late at night I found myself on a cliff and I still have scars near my ankles from the crabs and sharp oyster shells that clamped the poetry into my runny nose personality. i know i cling onto the girl on the bench and i know you see the boy lost among a crowd of strangers, but we see more than we speak, but when we speak– it’s my absolute favorite. and i know we have differences. but our similarities are way too cramped too deny. i know you saw it a long time ago. when i mentioned drug abuse, you said it’s okay. when i mentioned addiction, you said you’re addicted to my cheery atmosphere. when i mentioned broken home, you said foster’s home for imaginary friends was your favorite tv show. when i mentioned death, you said life is a sand box and death was the sand castle. we all fall down one day. when i mentioned heartache and anger, you said your heart only stops hurting once you start bandaging and sleeping more. so i did, and so i got better. when i mentioned self-harm, you said cuts make room for flowers and if every petal meant you love me, you’d have more than a thousand gardens from when adam met eve. when i mentioned being lost, you said being found was somewhere in between your fingers and if i ever needed validation, look into the mirror. recording myself sleeping. peace and calm, that’s who i am. that’s who i will be. that’s who i lost and will find again. when i mentioned wanting to grab that gun, you said that life has to have more. it has to. the balcony with melted cigarette filters became my home for seven months. seven fucking months. that’s when i met you. when i mentioned poetry and how to get better. back in november, i wonder if you saw a piece of your baby brother inside of my smile. i wonder if you knew. when i mention about you, you’d say i’d find you in between the spaces of your fingers holding yourself tight with a clenched fist. when i mentioned about love, you’d say love yourself before you love anyone and that will fix you more than you’d like to think. and i know it hurts to wonder about the days when they’ll be back. you may never feel wanted or needed, but you are. i need you to be you. i want you to be you. just you. even if it means that i find my way out of the arcade. even if it means that i make my way off that cliff with my bloody feet and bare jog the whole way to that bench. i’ll sit next to you. and we’ll wait. and wait. and wait. and you may run out of bandages by the time this poem is over, but sorry, but i’m not sorry. i brought some for your knuckles. and we’ll sit and wait and sit and wait and sit and wait and sit and wait and sit and wait and sit and wait– and i’ll find a cloud just for your baby brother and i hope he knows that you’re in good hands. and if i run out of bandages, shit, i guess our written poems finally have usage. what are bandages made from our paper poetry? i love you.