Claws in Your Back by Julien Baker (I change my mind. I wanted to stay) and Favor by Julien Baker (I’d have missed you more than you missed me), and Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi (I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don’t know then you’re lucky but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop.) and What Resembles The Grave But Isn’t by Anne Boyer (sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!”) and Resumé by Dorothy Parker (you might as well live) and Hum, Hum by Mary Oliver (Some wounds never vanish. Yet little by little I learned to love my life.) and The Orange by Wendy Cope (I love you. I’m glad I exist.) and Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled with Shrieks by Christopher Citro (I love you. I want us both to eat well.) and Onions by William Matthews (How easily happiness begins by dicing onions.) and And When You Survive This by Peter Chiykowski (On the far shore of this calamity, you are looking back in admiration at yourself right now, muddling through with grace and grit and grim determination, and you are smiling because you know the secret of how you survive this, and one day, you will have the chance to share it.) and Hope In Every Box by Winston Rowntree (Tomorrow is another world, just a few feet away but far enough to always give you hope. I hope I'll see you there.) and Morning Love Poem by Tara Skurtu (It’s hard to say I need you enough. Today I did. Walked into your morning shower fully clothed. All the moments we stop ourselves just because we might feel embarrassed or impractical, or get wet.) and To Be Alive by Gregory Orr (That’s crudely put, but… If we’re not supposed to dance, Why all this music?) and Prayer for Werewolves by Stephanie Burt (you have friends, who are not going anywhere. Please stay here.) and On Seatbelts and Sunsets by Hanif Abdurraqib (God, I wear seatbelts and visit the graves of my friends in spring to kick away the dirt from winter. God, it is just us talking now, and I worry about everything I can’t control. God, can you tell me how much longer I’ll get to be alive and in love. God, I am sorry for the times I didn’t want to stick around. God, there is a scroll of things I have taken for granted in order to survive this long, and it is endless. And it is maybe too late to want to live forever after everything I’ve seen and done. But) and (i know we’re both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i’m saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it’s raining. what i’m saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i’m saying is that i’m here for you and if the train comes please move.) by Rowan Perez and The Letter by Linda Gregg (I’m not feeling strong yet, but I am taking good care of myself.)
