Sometimes, especially on days when I wake before the sun, 
I cry and don't know why.
I think most people do occasionally. 

Last week I received a brown envelope
full of old passports. 
I stood at the countertop and opened it with my nail.

I flipped through the top few
and examined my grandfather's picture,
the stamps, the places he'd been, his signature on the line. 

And then, at the bottom of the stack, there was my father. 
I knew without reading the name. 

He had the same half-smile
and open eyes and way he tilted his head. 

And then I was crying
and I think I was happy. 
I remember smiling
and licking a tear from my top lip.

I couldn't stop looking at that tiny worn passport photo. 
I couldn't figure out how all that rain got inside my heart. 

Sometimes, I think when we're really desperate
we see ourselves in people we love. 

At night, I’m terrified of falling asleep
because I don’t know what horrors are inside.
I may be young, but I can understand them.
I dress in dark colors and wear chains and chokers.
I feel so small in such an enormous universe.
I want to play the part of a human being,
but I also want to become the goddess of the stars.

I’m in love with the rain as it cools on my skin,
the petrichor that follows, and the returning sun,
but my heart spins like a weathervane in a storm.
My mind is a chaotic clatter of voices and sounds.
I am the commander of a thousand soldiers.
I am the brittle stem that carries the dead leaf.
My elegant and long fingers were created to create.
My tongue was pierced and your heart, it will pierce.

I pinch my cheeks so that they may smile wider,
but I am not always happy. I cry so I may cry again.
I am the drawings and writing on painted walls.

As we walked through the great doors, wonders beyond description emerged before us. Enormous bears loomed overhead - a wall of matted hair, hooked claws and teeth rearing up to emphasize the vast space of the great Victorian hall. We continued along the first floor, my mother and Mrs. Pudvah occasionally stopping to admire the sheer menagerie of scales, feathers, and fur. A golden eagle perched here, a buffalo in mid-graze nearby, a family of opossums hanging there. Having seen the exhibits before, I kept walking. Senior photos were due by the end of the coming month, and there was a certain space in the museum I wanted my picture taken. Soon we found an odd little nook, its stairwell winding up to the second floor, its curved wooden expanse like that of a ship’s deck. Like a deck, the floor creaked with nearly every step, producing the only noise, save for some side conversations and children playing downstairs.

I'm going through a cave art phase. 

(This isn't finished yet, I will add more animals and soften the dark lines.)