Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.

November

An extended branch 
from a forlorn soul 
hidden in clouds of 
periwinkle tears 
and silent cries 
that reach my heart here, 
down below
where leaves lie lifeless, 
crippled by sharp cold 
injected into each stem, 
and into my very bones. 
An extended hand 
to one who's only ever 
been beaten back 
by palms and fists 
greater than the heavens, 
(or at least in a child's eyes)
and cried elephant tears 
over aches and scars 
that are only seen beneath
thin, thin skin:
an emotionally malnourished babe. 
And it's only when my mother's eyes
shine back at me from the mirror
that I smile in spite of every 
melancholic bone in my body 
and stop sulking long enough 
to let everything I hold onto 
die like those stone cold leaves, 
and blow away, 
far, far away, 
to those pale clouds, 
where sadness abounds, 
leaving only hope, 
to remain.

Chalk

Startled by my own shadow, 

startled, and shell shocked--

I exist outside of my body, 

but what kind of creature am I?

I feel thin, and my heart weeps, 

as cold wind blows me away, 

I feel thin hearted, and I weep.

The pools of my own perseverance

have been dipped into too often 

and because I forget my place 

in this other-worldy scheme of things, 

I am weary and depleted. 

Creation knows me, 

as the painter of the sidewalk, 

who lays her burdens out 

for the trees and birds to see,

while walking simple streets. 

I am an aching wretch, 

and my skinny heart knows it, 

so I am startled,

by a shadow that does no justice 

to the brute I often become 

inside of my skin, 

but rather it paints me blank

with no wear or tear, 

or damage of any kind. 

I live in hope, 

on the concrete, 
even when I feel none of it 
within me. 

Pleased To Meet You

Allow me to introduce myself,
as aloof and misconstrued
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I search for the right way
to be as aberrant, yet as conventional
as I know myself to be.
Forgive my biting directness,
for I've only tried to show you
that I'm not as predictable as I seem.
See, you've thrown me off,
with your ability to read me
before I've even penned the words
to define my own emotion.
It's hardly fair.
I fight to stay one step ahead,
when I know I've been behind all along,
and you're fully aware, 
and I'm terrible at whatever this is,
but I'm a willing student.
So allow me to introduce myself,
as simple-hearted and deliberate,
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I learn the right way
to be as honest and lovely
as I know myself to be.

My name's Lena.

To Weep

The day the fire came
I wasn't there to pull you out,
you were unable to walk away yourself,
and though I think my intent to be right,
I likely wouldn't been able to save you anyways.
But you knew what you were doing;
you wrote your fate with a black-ink pen,
and signed your name on all the dotted lines,
you signed me over to the ways of the world
without you in it,
and you signed yourself over
to a world I've never seen.
The day the fire came,
I distracted myself with handiwork
and tried not to think
of the box you would come home in,
the tears I longed for you to see,
of the scalding you would feel,
the darkness of your watery eyes,
and the selfishness I harbored
in the bottom of my little heart.

Oh how I wish
I had a gravestone to weep at.