My mother asks me why do I Give my poems names Like wheelchair, a crutch, an inhaler A one bedroom beating heart Why can’t i call them something prettier, softer, less sick and more alive or simple literary devices that carry my sad around when it gets bored inside It’s home, or when restlessness locks itself out of my mind, It doesn’t happen often But it happens. What she means to ask But is too afraid to is Can you not put yourself on display like that? You’re drawing the wrong crowd. Most of the days i sneer at them, The questions i mean. Or the crowd ( depends on what day it is) A girl gone feral is a girl alone But today is a question mark Shaped freckle resting in the crook of my arm with the IV needle And time is throwing rocks at my window, so before the tapping stops Let me tell you that this poem right here, is a gas mask A tiny piece of tech miracle A small rebellion against death’s tyranny, This poem will make paper swans out of your discarded suicide notes and teach them how to fly so that your friends can find you on time, This poem thinks you’re beautiful Even on the days you don’t wash your hair or shower because inside the blanket is a dark you feel safe in, This poem will say i love you back Exactly seventy-three times and will not be afraid to hold your hand in dimly lit parking lots, This poem will not cancel plans, This poem thinks love is coming, is just around the corner and is one call away. This poem will dial the number. This poem will help you on days medicine will fall short, On the days you’re the only person In your one-bedroom beating heart And the walls start to close in on you This poem will be there to paint the cabinets yellow, it’ll let the sunshine in, This poem will kiss you behind the ear and rub that spot on your back you can’t quite reach when you’re nauseous This poem will love you, unconditionally. Here mom, If it still doesn’t sound pretty Think of it like like this This poem is just Another reason to go on living In a long list of reasons For one more day at least.