By Zara, TIWP Student

We are simple
run down
tragic 
accidentally absolutely present.

We are the creative genius behind the automobile
and the scythes come to execute the believers.

We are sheep that believe they are shepherds,
the artist that draws inside the lines formed by the imprint of our fingernails.

We are blood
dripping from the rooftop
and rain running down our shins.

Sometimes I worry
because sometimes is not always.

For the athletic academic anytime anywhere 
anyway she will make it,
she will succeed past the point of possibility
for the mother who does not believe in rest.

And then the boy who lost his father
who makes me wonder how he still can smile
and laugh and dance like all the rest
so maybe it’s him who’s missing?

For the child with no hood to play under
before the storms of adulting strike them faster than lightning.
There is no water than can wash away
pink and purple and red stains.

I hate to nag,
but please answer me
is what I say when I cannot fly
and I can only wish I know what she might be doing,
how she might be feeling
or the rhythm of the heartbeat I wish I could hear
but only fear it is pulsing too quickly.

Worrier, 
are you worrying?
Because I am.

Or are you fighting?
The shapes I create from a crescendo of words
are the characters of Earth’s epic.
Are you a warrior
because you swore you’d serve
and now I just question why
not.

Be angry.
Smash pottery and scatter the shards with the strength of a tsunami.
Be the earthquake the divides mountains from valleys,
belongers and those who belonged.
Tear through the flow of the rivers you carry
like the structure of sentences 
you abruptly ended.

This is all guesswork,
my warrior worrier
tell me if the world is running out of time.

If the sky is going to fall or the forests implode
I understand, just tell me.

I don’t know who I am speaking to anymore.
A victim or a girl or a murderer.
Someone who doesn’t pick up the phone.
I don’t know what I am speaking to anymore.
Seems like flesh and blood which doesn’t mean human to me.

When I read this back 10, 20, 50 years later,
your shadow will be a mystery.

An outline that chases me in my confusion,
the traveler from a distant realm trudging across the ridge
with a baggage in which she conceals the answers.

Don’t be either the worrier or warrior,
even though it is in your nature like we fight or flight.
Don’t pull your lips apart and bare your teeth; smile.
Don’t suck in the air you need to survive; laugh.
Don’t open your arms and crush the uncomfortable; hug.
I hope you don’t need me to tell you this,
and I worry you do and aren’t listening
and I will face you in war and lose
because I’ve shed my armor.