This is what happens when they no longer call me peacemaker; they weep for me like they know me: I want to spill them into a book and read the words until I understand them better. Set the pages on fire when I’m finished, because the ink is flammable. The ink is permanent. The ink is my blood and I’m the fucking Phoenix. I wonder how people float through the world without ever landing? But I’ve always hated heights anyways. I am rooted in chaos. Looking up at everyone coasting higher than the pedestals I once put them on. Wishing to be as free as that, except now dig holes. I plant pieces of myself in a garden in hopes of blooming. Watch the tulips turn to flames before they have the chance to say hello. Empty this anger in the sky as it paints me in colors of combusting galaxies. They weep for me like they know me. No one cares unless they really try- unless they can figure out how to walk through flames without getting burned. If I could read back every script I wrote about you, would you dare to listen? The characters are your actions and I want to warn you that none of them are heroic. I want each of them to look through my eyes- the same as my mothers eyes, and tell me the plot isn’t true. Tell me you were right all along. That you didn’t know how your silence spoke everything I needed to know in certain moments. They weep for me like they know me. -AMT