Today, you will polish your metaphors
and walk into a room of gunslingers.
You, too, can write about the beauty of art,
and the pleasures that warm the heart.
Toss your sadness for a while, child,
the world is not always a sinking island,
not always a circus of swords,
Death, too, spares himself some rest,
his blade will dull before he sharpens.
Fear is now a man
too old to follow your quick steps,
his tongue, too weak
to shoot a serpent at your spine.
Today, there is no venom in your bloodstream
to ripple anxiety.
Your lungs are not the pillars of Samson’s suicide.
Fill the chambers of your body with oxygen,
You are carbon but not yet the burning flesh,
not the wrapped corpse.
You are firework above an air bomb,
sprinkling sparkles instead of showering shrapnel.
You are not yet dust,
your bones still abide in a home that isn’t wood,
and you are still just a masquerade of skin,
just another walking mannequin,
not the snap of an earthquake,
not the strike of a matchstick.
I know of mornings
where there is nothing to wake up to,
when the sadness wears you like a straitjacket
and you just can’t seem to be gay.
But today your heart is not a grenade
waiting for fragmentation,
there is still a breathing sunflower
basking in the garden of your chest.
Smile, smear the canvas of your face
with the edges of your jagged lips.
Today is not the day the ground
will feel the thickness of this skin.