“As a child I was undiagnosable. There was no pill
for the way I was inconsolable when I first read the story of
Plath’s life ending. My father took me to a diner that day
and I cried into half a napkin someone had left behind,
the words “You are more than” scrawled in a rush
just above the tear.
It only got worse with the years as I learned that
objects could be easily fixed and I couldn’t. It became
a problem, an addiction to handing pieces of my heart
out to dangerous boys and strangers with hooded eyes,
until my mother signed me up for a class called
How To Stop Loving Broken Things.
It didn’t work out. When the teacher finally gave up
he left a room of shadows dressed in black, crying into
each other’s shoulders and discussing sparrows’ wings
and the sound the tide makes before it pulls away.
Instead of discussing ways to stop loving, we talked about
etymology and the way the word “piece” has its own spot
in the dictionary. We handed each other diner napkins
with words to end that sentence no one wanted to finish.
You are more than what they see. More than stardust.
More than the speed of sound and the sound of echoes.
You are more than atoms and neurons colliding and
you are more than the ones who only know how to leave .