Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

-- Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Tequila and Galoshes

The land mines went off.

I show up at her door
armed with rainboots
and tequila.
"Honey," I tell her,
"life is gonna give you lemons,
so break out the tequila and dance on the table."
And so we do.
And when we've finished one bottle,
maybe two,
when we've listened to very 90s album she owns
and broken the table in two,
we collapse on the couch,
laughing.
And I say, "Baby,
life is gonna give you rainstorms,
so break out the galoshes and dance in the puddles."
And so we do.
And when we've traipsed down the street,
around the neighbourhood,
when we've scared the children who live next door,
and scandalized the old man down the street,
we stumble back home,
laughing.

A quick poem for a friend who is having a rough go of it right now.

Excerpt from last night's text messages:

B: WHY DON'T MY EMOTIONS EVER MAKE SENSE?!?!?!

L: Because you're a girl

B: Being a girl is exhausting.

L: Tell me about it

She was one of those people who ran headlong into life, arms flung wide, mouth open, head thrown back.