Angel

Maybe it’s my bad heart.
Maybe it’s the way I blamed it on a bad world.
Maybe it’s the haunting;
I must have inherited someone’s ghosts. 

I wrote a story about love once
because I thought it would come true. 
It didn’t,
so I stopped writing altogether. 
The worst didn’t happen
but still my body closed like a door. 
I pictured a world where I slept through the night
and didn’t blame my mother
and didn’t blame myself.
It’s a good place to rest but
I could never live there. 
I might not have a chance at loving someone.
No wedding, no eventual children
with my eyes. 
I probably would have made a bad mother anyway.
Sometimes I draw maps and wonder
if my grandparents knew it would happen
the way it did.
If they ever got used to waking up
on the wrong side of the world. 

I think it’s the small things that will ruin me
in the end. 
They’re the hardest to mourn
because no one
else ever notices
what’s
missing.

– Y.Z, Okay, So This is What Had to Happen (via rustyvoices)