By Lynsey Griswold

I suppose there is a beauty in being the kind of person

who lights things on fire rather than sitting down;

who runs so fast that the tears are ripped away

by the wind of the sighs that gasp at their heels.

These are people who get written about in poems,

and who don’t have to write their own songs.

They are inscrutable—godly aloof.

People love to throw themselves at them.

But I am not a thrower of my self anymore.

I’ve lived enough tragic love stories,

thrown so many pennies into wishing wells,

maybe I wouldn’t have to work this shitty desk job if I’d saved them.

I wouldn’t give up those loves, their memories, the shadowy ache they left,

for eternal life or riches,

but I would damn well rather have the here and now of them

if they hadn’t run off on poetic benders.

I would a thousand times over rather be buried in that black hair,

side by side and breathing the same air in the night,

than to have learned my lessons from

those heroes who can’t bear to stay for fear of facing the light of day.

Fuck you, rolling stones. I once thought I’d be your moss

and just latch on, stay with you;

but once you’ve rolled so far you’ve worn away your features,

you will be just another grain of sand.

I will be planted here, on a hilltop, on a tree root,

and I will have that ache in me still,

but I will not chase you down.

If you had seen the beauty in me,

the quieter heroics of my unfurling,

I’d have been happy to run you down and show you the wildness in me,

savage as yours, capricious as the wind in your hair.

But you’d have had to stop and turn around,

stop being that fleeing hero for long enough

to let me show you my self.

My self does not back down from demons you might let loose.

It does not quiver in fear when you yell.

It will not turn away when you cry.

It will bolster you against yourself,

it will hold on to you when you quiver

and fight what makes you turn away.

But it will not chase you anymore.

Remember how I was when it was spring.