she's sitting in the cracked brace of a tree,
her eyes quiet like crescent moons.
and she looks like she has the voice of an ocean,
but she only wishes she had that much courage --
to put herself (back) together and yell
until she has galaxies and stars
pinned up against her lips.

her father used to hold her in his arms
and tell her that wearing half-hearts was a sin,
that her soul could break diamonds
and still be whole.

and she wore his poetry on her skin
like little jewels that made her feel beautiful,

until he chose the heavens and undid her stitches,
leaving her with lungs that burned like autumn leaves,
november pale in comparison.