Silent Wolf

Poets love to obsess over the word broken.
I couldn't tell you why—
I mean, I do it all the time. 
It's a good word, I guess, but still—
They love the word
They love its rhymes
And its connotation.

What is growing up? I asked my uncle when I was ten. 
He said growing up is doing math and getting a boyfriend.

Since then, I have quite revised what it is to grow
and made a list of things I thought might go:

This is how I live now.
Once, I lived fast
And I could not stop for a moment
To appreciate the world around me—
I was running with the wind
Flying so high
That I was hanging from the stars
On a glowing, galactic swing.

I'm on FaceTime
And my aunt is talking
Right after I've told her
Everything that's been going wrong with my life—
She doesn't understand, just
Tells me to have a good outlook
And believe in the future
And the sky and the sun.

Even when I was nothing, 
You still loved me.

Even when I was broken
And choking on my pride,
You still loved me.

Even when I was sobbing
In front of a computer screen
At two in the morning,