Last night the imaginary boy told me I was beautiful.
He told me it frustrated him
that I didn't see it, told me it made him want to cry.
But he didn't, so I cried for him,
for the both of us.
After all, he always says,
we are our own worst critics.
For his sake, I believe him.

Today he told me he'd save me.
I said, "I wish you were a real boy."
And he said, "Would a real boy say things like this?"
And I'm thanking gods I don't believe in that I'm not a wooden girl whose nose grows
when she lies,
because my nose would have been growing when I said,
"Yes, all the time."

The imaginary boy kisses me and it feels so real that I wake up smiling like an idiot, like a buffoon
for the next two weeks.
My smile always fades when I remember it's not real.
I have only imagined that beautiful boy whose eyes are the same color as my mother's voice,
whose hair is soft as sand,
whose voice sounds like coming home, coming clean.

I scold myself for getting lost in my thoughts, for getting carried away, like I always do, like love always does, like hope always does.
You have to understand, when you're part of a generation that puts too much stock in yesterday
and doesn't believe in tomorrow, it's easy to lose yourself.

Maybe I just need somebody to find me, somebody to dig my safety net out of my closet
and put it back up,
somebody to tell me,
our cuts are deep, but when they heal, they always rise up
and try to kiss us.
You just have to kiss back.

The last time I spoke to the imaginary boy, he said,
"You'll find me someday.
You just have to keep looking, and keep your heart open."
I'm keeping this in mind, for the next time I try not to fall in love.
After all, I'm more likely to wear my heart on your sleeve, rather than mine.
I give it away too quickly and take it back so fast it feels like stealing.
You could call me a heartbreaker, but the heart I break most has always been my own.
And my highest hopes sit at the bottom of my heart, so if I give you my heart,
know that I'm giving you
everything I have,
everything I am.
So when you're done with it, please dust it off
and leave it on my welcome mat.
I will pick it up
when you leave.

I don't have to worry about the imaginary boy leaving.
He will always be there, in the back of my mind, like a song I don't know all the words to.
But he knew all the words of me,
even the ones I never said,
even the ones I wish I could take back.
He says they sound like a poem to him, even when I know
they sound more like a broken record.
I could play him music, if I could only fix what's broken,
if I could only
find it.
But some of us are born with scratches already on us.
Some of us never finish the songs we were born to sing.
Some of us tremble.
Some of us shake.
But it's our trembling and shaking that teaches us to move on.

It's been awhile since I last spoke to the imaginary boy, but I'm remembering everything he said.

And sometimes, I even smile when I'm awake.