My parents always tell me
to never fall in love with someone else
who has baggage, but
I want to lie down in bed with you
and have you lay out all of your suitcases.
I want you to show me the dress you
wore when you were seven and that neighborhood
girl, Sara, kissed you on the nose.
Please lay out those scars you wore once
because it was easier to hate
yourself than to love.
Hold the end of that conversation
with my grandmother because her brain
couldn’t breathe any more, and hear
me say one last good bye.
Hold that rock I have from hitting bottom,
and let’s climb back up together.
Let’s pack up these bags,
stuff them back into our lungs, and not
forget how heavy we felt once
and how light we feel now
I want to simply know your history,
even the darkest corners,
so maybe me being there
will make them easier to bare.