How to break apart sixteen years

Write the good parts,
laughing and writing,
poetry and open mics,
friends and black and white
pictures on permits,
IMs and emails
and CONGRATULATIONS,
YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED INTO THE
CLASS OF 2022.
 
But then,
it is important to write the bad parts too.
Glossy coffins,
last goodbyes,
first goodbyes,
cameras and pens that ran out of ink
a few sentences too short,
stuck in lobbies
and emergency rooms,
crying thick black stitches
that sew your mouth shut.
 
Sixteen years is not enough time
to heal.
 
Write rainy days,
sad days,
sitting-here-until-it’s-over days.
Pajama days,
endless cups of coffee days,
ripping-everything-off-my-walls-
and-starting-over days.
 
Write sunny days,
bare feet that startle the neighbors,
little hands that trace your face,
open windows
and hair that dances to the music,
chocolate cake and purple candles,
Polaroids and tiny sips of champagne.
 
Write upside down days,
words that don’t make sense,
imposter syndrome that sticks
its tongue inside your cup,
puts its curled hand on your waist,
there’s nowhere left to go
and nothing left to say.
 
Write faraway days,
30,000 feet in the air
is the same as sitting together on the couch.
Atlantic, Pacific, doesn’t really matter which one it is.
I can’t call you if I’m drowning in saltwater.
 
Write close days,
tea-stained days,
movie days,
falling in love days,
apartments and tiles
and a boy on your doorstep
holding a bouquet of flowers.
 
Sixteen years is long enough
to fall in love 672 times.
 
Write broken days,
mended days,
study days,
rest days,
prayer days,
candle days,
all the days.
 
Just write,
write and write and write
until you’re left in a cloud
of strawberry kiwi lip balm
living in a world
that won’t hear you
even if you scream.