My friend, for one who can be so quiet the voice you have is bold. I don’t know where you find the courage but invariably you own your words like land you’ve bought with blood. Heartsick, your broken drumbeat pounds inside the knowing all the breaking in the world. I always thought you’d be a cello, you know, instead of tympani, but then, your mother played the pipe organ like a Gothic god. It’s no wonder part of you is tuned to always hear the cracking of her bones.  Her suffering was silent to everyone else. 

Everyone else. 

No one else. It made you alone to hear it and there was nowhere for you to go. Go now. Buy earplugs. Listen to woodwinds until the channel can change. Make friends who only drain you in the normal way, then fill you up with hugs and affectionate  disagreements and eyes that see you crying in the rain even when it looks like the sun is shining bright. Even when you have to tell them but you can because they’re not the sort to faint at the sight of blood. 

You are purple. You are complex, hot and cold and hard and softer than that silky white cat who saved your life when your brother died. You know how to leave but you always choose to stay. The world still needs you, telling squirrels you love them and seeing flower songs shimmering opal along the edges of the evening sky. It’s your legacy. You get to see and love, but you have to pay for the seeing. 

Maybe it won’t always cost so much. Maybe you’ll be reimbursed. Maybe you are even more lovable than rabbits or marmots or baby dear ducking their heads in the grain fields. Maybe the strength that seems like it’s cruel, forcing you sometimes to keep breathing when you’d rather stop, is actually being kind because if you just keep breathing there will be beauty and joy and surprising comfort that will make all the extra breathing worthwhile. 

I want you to hold onto possibilities with the same tenacity you’ve employed so you could take ownership of your words and live. Life is the goal. You’re not alone. You are loved. You are worthwhile and you have a lot to offer this crazy, fucked up world, but you (listen, you) are not fucked up. You are wounded, but you already know that’s not the same. A person can be wounded and be a rock star. That’s you. You get extra points just for breathing, because you’re unique and valuable and sensitive. Being you is good. Be you.