You were picking up broken pieces of youth and I saw them slice your palms. I told you it was only a flesh wound and if it leaves a scar, at least I’ll always be there. I hope your palms ache for the universe as it gives you nothing in return. The world doesn’t work like a clock. It’s unfathomable. It pulls and pushes in all the wrong ways until one day it shows you stillness and you believe in it for a moment. It’s a fault. It’s a temptation. Its indignant. It’s a sad way to say goodbye. And it uses you until you disintegrate back into the earth like the root of an untamed flower. I am as wild as no such thing. I wear peace like shackles, except nothing holds me back. I choose when to release them from my grip. Watch as they fall from me like a stream of holy water baptizing you in some sort of mercy you crave. Watch you sink. Watch you sweat out my perfume like a sickness. Let the scent fill your space like suffocation. We all want to be forgiven for giving not enough to the world and expecting something in return. See me planted in memories where flowers never grow- they rot back into the earth. We’ll all do the same one day. And until then, I hope you savor your youth because it’s homesick for you too. Carefully pick up the pieces of peace you let clumsily fall through your scarred palms. -AMT