I’ve had enough scraped knees to know
they're sensitive to the touch,
but my legs always get back up--
though they quiver,
like my lips
when they try to stand up;

I’m so sensitive to the touch
even sound waves scrape my heart.
It’s hard to rise back up,
somehow it’s easier to be down,
letting the soil infect the wounds.

I’ve been lying for a long time--
mainly to myself--
tricking my mind into believing
my phone booth was built without a red cape,
searching, and digging deeper.

I’m crawling,
patching each boo-boo with a band- aid;
I know I’ll be scared to take them off,
scared that I’m not ready,
I’ve got plenty of healing to do,
but time is all I have left,
and it’s about time that something’s on my side.

They say to rip them off quickly,
but its okay to
peel back the edges slowly--
whatever makes you feel safe,
even if it seems foolish.

The only fool I know,
is the one who told me it’s impossible to fly.
I’ve seen so many people soar,
fallen for every one of them,
but never did I fall so hard
as when one came down to teach me how.

I’ll fall again,
I suppose I’m clumsy,
now I realize,
the ground doesn’t have to be my best friend.

My heart has been grounded
for far too long--
drowning in valleys forged to drain runoff
that collected guilt instead,
between mountains of doubt,
encompassed in a landscape shouting embarrassment.

Some animals are born knowing how to swim,
I had to learn to keep my head above water
until I reach the shoreline
and keep crawling back

Home,
has never been a comfort,
in the same way my skin has often felt foreign
despite examining every pore for beauty
that I was never to find
until I saw, your heart.

I may bruise my knees,
I know they too will heal,
until then I’ll follow the pattern of your breathing,
the metronome to my healing;
I've never had much rhythm
but I know you’ll keep me on beat.