the poem I can't explain

They tell me to call our conversations 'prayers'
to enjoy every minute of us because I can't do anything without you.
Every time I talk to you, though, it's through muffled tears with an anxious heart
and an overbearing need to push everything from my chest onto yours.

I've been looking up words that mean more than 'sorry',
and all I found was the key that I throttled into my chest to pull out my feelings,
then handed them to you.

You saw all sorts of 'sorry' written in the lining of my stomach.

I thought you'd pat me on the back and push me into the world again,

but you scooped me up like some rare, fascinating yellow ladybug

and you whispered the secret to using my wings.

Why?
Why did you do that?
I made a mess of myself, I painted everything black and red and gray
and soiled the skin I wear
and in return,
you handed me a boy that carries you on his shoulder, you poured stars into our canteens,
sent a warm front through this cold town so my lungs had fresher oxygen.

Why do you forgive me so fast,

and forget me not?

And why do you keep sending me flowers,

when I don't even pull weeds?

I hum songs that remind me of my potential,

reading the same lines over and over and over

but I've never read the same line twice.

There's a picture of you on the corner of this desk, by a stack of letters your friends wrote,
the ones sailing on cargo ships and reading Russian
and pulling cigarette smoke out of misshapen lungs in other cities.

I'd apologize for not being like them,

but you've never asked me to change.

You wrote my story with the blood that streamed from your fingerprints

and only asked me to be kind and listen for you.

but instead, I went to high school

pushed kids into walls

pulled girls' hair

sent boys into whirlpools,

then buried myself in the sand.

And after all I didn't do,

you breathed through your own blood,

"And it was worth it."

I never cried as much as you did
I never died as much as you did
I never bled as much as you did

But I never loved as much as you did

and I've never loved anyone

as much as I love you.

I'm sorry I didn't write you a poem and plant flowers in the garden.
I'm sorry for closing my ears at you,
for throwing rocks at the statues you carved
and smearing cold paint on warm things.

But thank you, Lord, for keeping your hand on my shoulder

even when I shrugged it off

even when I pulled away.

I can't find the words to end this poem I wrote for you.

But you once told me

good things have no end.