you are the historian.
measure me in decades:
one in my bones,
two in the flesh,
four in the crevices of my brain–
you are the cartographer. map me out
on wet sand like the ocean in my dreams.
scale me to the size of a pebble,
because i am only as significant as you make me.
you are the author: tell my story on lined paper
in notebooks with gorgeous covers,
and tell them i lived for moments like these
that i wore my heart on my sleeve,
but that i bunched it up– tell them that
growing up was the hardest problem i ever had to solve.
you are the archaeologist:
dig deep with your bare hands
because you’re too passionate
for tools and technology,
pushing past dank earth,
sleeping worms and coiled secrets to where i lay.
you are the savior, now:
lift me out of here and carry me home.