Maple

The bottom of the maple tree 

suited my purposes, so I 

dug down with my bare hands 

until I uncovered the roots. 

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it 

between those mighty veins. 

The dried blushing roses, 

the letters and the poems, 

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you 

gave me, buried in the ground. 

And there my love can grow, 

warped in the roots of that big 

maple tree, rather than inside of 

a heart that can no longer 

sustain life. The only evidence 

left behind is the black dirt 

on my hands from covering 

it up. 

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart. 

Slieve Bloom

And with every gust of
heavy Irish wind I am
washed of the black,
miry bitterness that sat
in the corners of my
heart. Your name no
longer evokes the
stinging pain and the
aching dullness, but
rather the longing of
an eager heart, of a
forgetful heart. My lips
whisper prayers as soon
as you slip into my mind,
and I pick the petals of
poppies, letting each one
fly like the past seven
weeks. I am overwhelmed
by my earnest heart's
desire, to see you become
so totally wonderful
and strong, and I only
pray now for the true
privilege of being able
to witness it.

I drag my hands through the fields,
keeping them wide open.

Forget Me Not

We were delicate and blue
in the ground only weeks,
aspiring and full of life,
beauty beaming from our
bright eyes, hope in the
middle of our chests, and
love on the tips of our
tongues. The wind sang us
to sleep every evening,
the sun fed us its glory
with every passing hour,
and we belonged to the
earth, together and strong
we stood. But when the
rain came you forgot to
dance, and when the thunder
crashed  you ran instead,
and even now my whole
being aches for my
closest friend, my most
loyal and true love, and
I wonder where you are
and what you see, what
you dream, and though
it's still raining, I have hope
for sunnier days. Days where
you will come back, brave
and unaffected, standing
with me again. My dear,
please don't forget.

Phone

I become another woman
when your voice hits my
ears, and it's not the one
you know and love, but
another creature altogether.
My words become sharp
and my throat lends me
no sweetness, and my tone
only savours of anger and
hurt, and self-defence. I
hear her talking for me,
when inside I want to show
you that I'm still here, still
that same girl, still gentle
and kind, and a little more
understanding than I
probably should be, but
can't get it out. All that
leaves my lips are the
songs of the wounds that
sit in the pit of my soul,
the promises you made
that you so casually broke,
and the frustration I have
with myself for thinking
that you were different.

Because right now,
you're acting just the same.

Best

Because I never lived my life
for you, I trust you to time,
and the perfection of a will
not my own. But that doesn't
mean this is easy, or that I've
stopped loving all of your
broken pieces, or that I'm okay
with this path you've chosen
for me. Yet I will bear with you
because there is really no other
way for me to go. I am always
here.