I’m pretty young, and I don’t know much, but
I know that I used to be afraid of the sunset;
and I used to hide in the basement so I wouldn’t cry
in front of my worried parents.
It would fill the entire front room,
the popsicle-colored light,
brushing watercolors over our antique furniture.
It lit up the specks of dust,
as they flew around the house.
I was stuck between the French glass doors,
I hid between them,
shadowed by the wood that held them together.
In those moments,
I was afraid of a light the color
of my favorite popsicle flavor.

I know that
I watched my blue and red heartbreak
with front row seats.
As dark blue wrecking balls
tore our medicine cabinet to shreds.
And I watched
as the life I’d built up
shattered.
It spilled with the pills,
with the tears,
and with the stale ocean water.
And all I ever did was watch.

When I hear a song
and it can explain the pain I’ve felt,
I get a tingling in my palms.
I can feel my heart,
and it’s never slowed down,
no matter how slow I’ve felt.
I can feel my breath,
and it’s never stopped,
even at night
when my tears made black stains on the pillows.
I am alive,
and every day I remember that,
I grow just a little bit stronger.
I’m not made of crushed stars,
I am made of me.
I am made of courage,
love,
and everything else that I am.
I am made of fear and of venom.
I’m made of storms
and of whittled-away friends.
But I am also made of
popsicle sunsets.