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.

Archeology

I comb through the ruins
like an archeologist eager
to find the answers, looking
for signs in the dust that
offer the why, the how,
and the who. And the site
that marks the destruction
of "us" tells the story so
clear. Your reasons are
etched into the fibre of
your character, always
protecting and shielding
others from the beautiful
turmoil in your mind.
Oh it seems like you've
forgotten the day you told
me you loved me, the letters
and the flowers, the little
momentos and the way
you would stare into my
eyes and just whisper how
beautiful I was to you.
And since I would have
chosen to patiently walk
beside you through every
dark valley, had I been given
the chance, and loved you with
a quiet love, that lets you free
and lets you think, I have to
conclude that it was not I,
that destroyed this wonderful
gift, but you. You let go
of my hand and chose to
go through the war alone,
when you've always wanted
someone to know the very
depths of your wild heart,
We had seen bigger catastrophes
and weathered more treacherous
storms, but you through away
our love, and me, along with it.

Birds

My friend, I know he wants
your mind, he wants your
heart and the blood in your
viens, and he wants your hands
and your feet, your drive and
your will. He wants you to
bend to his darkness,
collapse under the weight
of the sin that he reminds you
of constantly, replaying
behind your eyes like a movie,
clear and detailed, he whispers
your thoughts, the ones you
suppress, but he knows, oh
he knows. And my friend,
I need you to see that he's
driving you into the cave
of your own head, isolating
you from the life that you have,
and magnifying your every fault,
shaming you for your humanity,
your unavoidable imperfection
and pulling you away from every
good and wonderful thing you
ever cherished, he's stealing
your joy, and selling you lies.

My friend, how much more
do you pray?

Emerald

Weeks until I touch the
ground of the only place
that has ever taken me as
its own. The only place
where I have danced in
the rain without looking
foolish, and seen the stars
unfold like a quilt, pulled
down from the attic. And
it's all I can do right now,
to hope in those weeks of
retreat, where I can stand
full and complete in who
I know I am, without fear
that it'll in some way be
perceived incorrectly.

How I long to be
bright again.

War

His lies are simple and easy,

swallowed without much 

difficulty, accepted without 

much push-back, and I only 

see the truth for what it is 

from the bottom looking up. 

He whispers oh-so quietly 

into my ears when I'm not 

paying attention, preying on 

my idleness, his only aim is

to suck the life out of me. He 

tells me I'm repulsive and 

underwhelming, the sole 

reason you've had to walk

away, and that I'm too 

weak-eyed and spineless 

for you to have ever cared 

for me at all. Undeserving 

and unworthy of you, and 

not enough to help you 

through. He rails on me as 

if he fears what I would do 

if I were allowed to stand up, 

and from the ground I only 

see the pure hatred in his eyes, 

drawing me into his deceit so 

convincingly, and he mocks 

the deepest parts of my soul.
With every day he tells me
you never wanted me at all,
and with every morning he
reminds me of the rejection and
its sting. He tells me your 

words are lies, he promises me
my opinion of you is false,
and he says that I'll always be alone. 

In a life of relational equations 

that always end up in the red, 

he tells me that I'm the common 

denominator. And I know, it's 

only the weakness in me and 

the cunning in him that stops 

me from seeing the truth. 

I promise that I'm trying.

Cold

There are days when only 

tea, and The Scientist 

will do. Through my 

tears and my cup of 

cream earl grey I sing 

"I'm going back to the start."

Tennis

The ball taps the pavement
on your side of this line,
acting as the metronome
to which you make your
next steps, while I am left
with no pace or way to
mark the time. My side of
this court contains nothing
but the wildness of my own
heart, and the chaos of
emotions too big for my
little body to handle, and
I enviously watch you
calculate your every movement
in order, and with thought.
You pick up the phone,
knowing I'm waiting on the
line, but you put it down again,
knowing it's not time,
knowing you're not quite
there yet, and I anxiously
wait for the call that might
never come.

I am strong,
I am strong,
I am strong.

Submarine

Today I caught
a middle-aged bald man
wearing your green
plaid shirt. You know,
my favourite one, with
the pocket over your
heart. He sat in our
usual seat on the subway
from St. George to
Bloor, reading the paper.
I couldn't think of anything
else but the smell of
your green plaid shirt,
and the way your eyes
shone when you looked
at me, holding my hand
as we arrived at the
interchange station,
and the smile on your
face as I shot you my
funny looks. He turned
the pages of the newspaper
while the announcer said
"arriving at Bay, Bay station"
and as he got up to leave
I could do nothing but stare
at his empty seat.

And you were gone.

Paul

Tell me of a single man,
from Genesis to Revelation
that was properly equipped
for his task? Pin point every
instance, where he was
perfectly ready for the call
to which he was given?
Explain to me how he was
wholly able to fulfill his
responsibilities. Because
all I see are pictures of
men who were human and
broken, fallen and completely
incomplete. I see a picture of
David, just a boy with a
handful of stones, and I
see Moses unable to speak
and I see Jacob afraid and
on the run, and I see Paul,
poor and wandering, rejected
and downcast. What makes
you think the Twelve had any
time to prepare for the most
arduous task when Christ asked
them to follow immediately?
When has our God ever been
in the business of calling us to
task "when we're ready?"
But you, you assume the need
for perfection in spades, for
readiness that is only ideal,
and because of the blindness
of your own mind you have
undone your responsibilities,
taken away from your maturity,
let go of your support,
and told God "you're just not ready".

And I sit here and pray with ferocity
that He shows you you're trusting a lie.

Consolation

As my chest rips open again
I beg You to hold me
closer
than you've ever held me
before,
because this sort of confusion
and unrest has never been so
potent.
And you lull me to sleep again
promising
that everything will make sense
in Your time.
You tell me it's not I that has to
see,
not I that has to be
changed,
but it is I that has to
trust.

Trust,
that You are good.

Ice Cream

He took your letters
from my hands, as
I sobbed into the
placemat. He told
me I wasn't allowed
to have them back.
And I just cried as
he put them in his
pocket and he said
"I know, I know."
And the anger in his
eyes, the confusion
and the frustration
towards you was
the perfect picture
of what my own
heart must look like,
and he told me it was
okay to want you back.
But then he said
if you didn't want
me back, then the regret
would last you a lifetime.

And through my tears I prayed,
for the strength to believe that.

Alarm

Even though I must refrain
from dialling your number
at 6:30am, I wake up on
my own, nonetheless, waiting
to hear your groggy morning
voice once again. And in these
days of absolute desperation
and aching, it takes all the
strength in me to lift you up
to someone greater, in order
to control the endless sobbing
and unimaginable pain. So
even though you sleep past
7 and have forgotten the
beauty we'd share at
daybreak and sunset,
I cling to the early morning,
lift my hands to the heavens,
let out all the tears my eyes have left,
and pray for you.
For your peace.
For your clarity.
For you to remember.

For the strength
to get through the day.

Blanket

I push back against the
morning because the
truth has never hit me
so hard before, and I'm
tired of soaking the pillow
case, and I'm running out
of Kleenex. I shove yesterday
out with the fleece blanket,
pulling it over my head to
be covered by you, praying
for the ability to wake up,
praying for the strength to
remember, praying for you
to know how little I want to
live like this, and my chest
aches right in the middle.
I tore it open as you walked
away and let you steal the
most precious thing I have
to give, and now I don't
walk around with life in me.
It is only grace that keeps me
breathing, only mercy that keeps
me upright, and only forgiveness
that pushes me to hope.

And I am awake.

The Fatherless in York

I wonder if he'd see

his mothers brown eyes 

when he looked at me 

and know that I was 

his, or if he would 

notice my crooked smile

and know the only other 

place he's seen that was in 

his high school graduation photo. 

I wonder if he saw me on the subway 

and thought he'd seen me 

somewhere before. Or if 

he thought back to the 

woman he spent a night with 

some 22 years ago 

and wondered if I were 

the evidence. I wonder if 

he entertains the thought of 

walking the same streets as me, 

or if he pushes my existence 

out of his mind. 

Most of all, I wonder 

if he wonders about me at all. 

The Gardner

Plant me in that perfect 

place, where my hands 

first met yours in our 

innocence, where our

hearts aligned and danced

until the morning. Root 

me in the meadow that 

is only meant for you 

and me, where no other 

feet have trod, no other 

name has been whispered, 

where only our love is 

known by the trees. There 

I will flourish under your 

sun, protected by the shade 

only meant for me, watered 

by the words you save, 

nourished by the time you 

invest. Fence me in, 

let me be wild in the confines 

of your heart, and keep me 

forever by your side. 

Cashier

My till is short by
about three hours
and thirty cents
and I know I
counted everything
two and three
times, but my
balance is still
off. Tell me where
the time went,
my dear, because
I'm still here with
the phone off the
hook waiting for
the dial tone to
stop, but it never
seems to end. And
I'm not okay with
this aching, not
okay with this
breaking, and when
my hands never
reach yours, as
far as they stretch,
I'm not okay with
this distance.

I'm not
okay.

To Sleep

If you read my poems
you would know.
I know you haven't,
because of your aching
silence. You've stopped.
And I hope to God
there's a reason why.

Blush

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
before they're doubled
over
with their pretty little
heads
breaking their little
necks,
beaten by the rain,
overwatered
after too much neglect.

They were ever so
perfect
when you planted them,
good-intentioned
but lacking the discipline to
water,
they dried and cracked,
until
the sky opened up and
poured,
drowning the delicate
flowers
in a sea of disappointed hopes.

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
and protect them,
while you still can.

Duvet

My fingers drop the
phone again, as I
decide against my
incessant initiation,
always leaving me
unsatisfied and unsure
of your affections,
while mine become
overwhelmingly
clear.

Please, do not
think you can stop
chasing after me,
just because you've
won my affections.

Old MacDonald

It's not that I'm trying to
convince you to come
home, or make you feel
guilty for missing me
grow, or even remind you
of what you're losing
out on. It's just that I
miss you, more than I
could have ever hoped,
unavoidable at best, and
desperate at worst. And
sometimes I just wish
I could call you after a
bad day, or have tea with
you on a rainy Sunday,
or share my greatest
moments with you.

But you've chosen another life,
other children,
and not me.

Champion

You are my second
thought in the morning,
my first phone call,
my last conversation
before slipping into
sleep, where you are
my champion above
a hundred others, and my
forever-first-choice,
always chasing after
me, and never outrunning
me. You are my constant
reminder of faithfulness,
example of grace and
embodiment of strength,
my hand to hold when
mine are shaking, and
lover of all my broken
parts. You are the only
human on this wide earth
who knows my biggest
secrets, the first one
I write poems about,
and the last voice
I want to hear.

Another poem about you,
and the hope for a thousand more.

Dogwood

Just take me to the river,
I'll pick my bouquet on
the way down, while you
twist dogwood into bands
big enough for our left
ring fingers, and the birds
can be our witnesses as
the rushing water ushers
us into this matrimony
of joy, and then we can
run with the birch trees,
lay on a quilt of crisp
leaves, and fall into love.

And then eventually,
we will sleep.

Wednesday

Sleeping on the subway
while you're driving into
work, on a rainy Wednesday
morning, cities apart.
I dream that you're with me,
sitting in the seat next
to mine, holding my hand
as I doze off, lulled by the
motion of the train. But
you are somewhere else,
not too far but far enough
for me to feel the absence
in my chest, and I open my
eyes to see an asian
grandmother in your seat.
I retreat to my dreams, of
rainy mornings with you,
only to be called back
by an announcer who informs
me that I've arrived at
Union station.

I sigh, and count the hours
until I can feel close to you.

Rockies

Let's take our blankets 

and our summer clothes 

pack them up in canvas 

bags and drive until we 

reach the mountains. 

Because honey, this 

subway car can't fit 

my heart, and these 

streets can't bear my 

restless feet any longer, 

and without your 

hand to keep me on 

the ground, I am most 

certainly a flight risk. 

Honey, let's go to the 

shores of every ocean, 

and make wishes on 

skipping stones, and 

camp under wild skies, 

until we find ourselves 

a home. 

With your red truck 

and my ragged map 

let's find ourselves 

a home. 

Ursa Major

You were in a better place once,
when your medication
balanced you out quite nicely,
and your hands didn't shake
too much. You could still play
piano, alone in the basement
beside the laundry room,
where no one could hear your
cursing, as you tried to sight read
Bach. You socialized with people
who were tolerably normal,
but understood your tendency
to miss weeks of school,
and welcomed you back with
cheering, and spent hours
making you laugh. But now you
only show up to take tests and
sit in desk chairs, no piano
stools or late-night trips
to the woods, telescope in
tow, and when you hold your
pen, it shakes like a leaf in
a gale-force wind, knocking
out your ability to steady
yourself on anything sound.
And I weep for you knowing
that no sweet word can combat
the sourness in your heart,
and no amount of love can
heal your weary mind--
at least none that our human
hands can offer you.

I only pray that someday soon
you are able to look at stars again.

Magician

He reached into the
hat and pulled out
my name in order to
show me that the
choice was more than
his own. But what
he forgot to mention
is that the hat was
full to the brim with
pieces of paper with
no one else's name
on them but mine.

Canary

I love that we can
measure the duration
of our love affair in
chapters of the Bible,
each one a week,
with hour-long
phone calls about
what James meant when
he said "count it all joy",
and 6am wake up calls
to pray while we're still
in bed. I love that we
can calculate the depth
of our love in the minutes,
hours, and days, that we
refrain from holding
each other, endless miles
keep us apart, but
only in physical distance
because you live in the
cabin of my heart and
I am a bird in your ribcage.

I swing and you smoke,
but we both sing.

Held

And though my heart beats

steadily in my cathedral chest
I feel stalled, like a broken city
bus on a busy city street,
that never leads to your
front door. I am unable to
inhale without feeling short
of breath, gasping under the
weight of missing you,
clawing for the surface in
this ocean of what it is to
be without you, and though
my desperation comes in and
out like the tide of the sea,
I remember that loving you
is a more beautiful kind of
agony. It gnaws at my ribcage
bounces in my lungs,
tears at my limbs--hands that
long to touch, feet that long to
follow.

My love, do not withhold
yourself from me.

Novel

And you waned as quickly
as you waxed, my dear. You
were as bright as the moon
and as warm as the sun on
my face, the morning I first
learned you were on your
way, but now you're so far
from me. My belly tells the
story but no more is being
written. The pages have
stopped turning, and the
pen has been put down,
but my dear, you've been
etched on my heart, scarred
to the inside of my stomach,
engraved in my eyes with
every sight of you, I've seen
your name in my mind,
heard your voice in my ears
and held your hand, in my own.
Now the only story being
written, my dear, is the one
in which I start my life
again, with no recollection
of the moon or the sun.

And I wonder if I'll ever remember
who I was before I knew you.

Bell Tower

Please do not become
another crushed sunflower
stepped on by the boots of
tragedy, or picked up by
a farmer's hands only to
be stripped of all your petals,
in his desperate search for love
in the answers you can yield.

Please do not become
a hollow frame of the woman
you are. You are a bell
tower full of ringing words
and a woodland brimming
with ferocious life,
because when you light up,
you're not easily put out.

Please do not become
the bird in the coo coo clock,
the rag doll left in the attic
to collect dust with the rest
of your childhood dreams,
never touched by loving hands
or held by inviting arms.
Please.

Your heart is too glorious
to be quiet.

Hadean

You come to the door with your 

bag of tricks, impressive and 

promising, trying to coax me with 

your viles and bottles, 

and sometimes you succeed. 

Today I swallowed your cough 

syrup without any sugar, then 

choked on your disease while 

you eagerly watched on. You 

work as the Devil's apothecary

and you prescribe my destruction 

with a stained smile breaking 

your hardened face, made of 

clay and paint, moulded after 

your master. You have his voice. 

To your credit, your deception 

was quite veiled, behind a fit 

of self-pity and guilt--I almost 

deemed you innocent, until the 

glint in your eye caught mine 

as the spoon came off of my 

lead tongue and when your  

smile turned wry, I knew I'd 

made a mistake. So as I purge 

your poison from my body I 

pray to remember this moment, 

so when you come knocking again, 

with your medicine in hand, 

I'll know to slam the proverbial 

door in your houndish face. 

Divine Affair

I will always want
your divided attention.
Split down the middle,
but sometimes wavering
to one side, never
fully fixed on me,
because I can only
give you the same
in return. We both
have another Love
to be wooed by, and
I wouldn't have it
any other way.

The only way I will be yours,
is if you are His.

Kiss

Kiss me when you see my eyes
look up at you in that secret way,
when you've just heard me
tell you my biggest dream,
when you remember all our
history, with one brush of my
hand. Kiss me when you know
no one is watching, and
kiss me when you feel the
urgency. Kiss me when my
tears fall like tea cups on a
tile floor, oh kiss me when you
know you're one step closer
to being sure. Don't kiss me
when you feel starved and don't
kiss me when you feel weak,
but kiss me when you know
nothing else will do,
no words and no signals
can relay what you feel,
and you only have one more
way to tell me.

And like everything else thus
far, I'll leave the timing up to
you.

Crown

I will slow
to see the day
wrapped up in
gold and emerald,
a crown among other
more treacherous days
that I can barely remember
here in the promise of another
life. Your smile is the warm sun,
and your eyes are the sea-blue sky
covering up all my fear and doubt,
blanketing me in the hope I barely
afforded myself until now.
You change the rules,
teach me another
way to breathe
and I will slow,
to see you
face to
face.

King Edward

You have the same first name
as the first boy I ever kissed.
On the cheek after school,
eight years old, bolder than
most. Scribbled notes
passed back and forth
inklings of love, too young
and too foolish, misguided
and premature.

You have the same first name
as the first boy I ever kissed.
Thirteen years ago, under the
streetlamp. And I ran away.
Ran towards your two arms,
waiting for me all this time,
hands that write me pages
of sweet words, outstretched
to draw me in.

And for the first time I wonder
if this could be it.

Overheads

Excuse me for a second,
I just have to stick my head
between my legs to stop the
racing thoughts and the heavy
breathing, to quell the vivid
flashbacks. Back to nights
I cried myself to sleep over
a man who hated to pray,
though he forced the rosary
into my hand, asking me to
decipher the will of God
with my own cold fingers--folded.

It's not that you resemble him,
because you couldn't look more
different. Your voice sounds
a hundred years old, and your
heart could love all my broken
pieces, and your hands reach
parts of me I only let God
touch, but you must see,
I'm a wounded soul that doesn't
forget and I beg you for
patience, because dealing with
me could prove more challenging
than you thought.

Just know,
I'm more than willing,
to rewrite our nightmares
together.

Maple

And you will ask me
what is wrong, why I've
been crying all night, and
why I haven't slept at all,
and I'll give you some
BS answer about
my childhood and my
problems with sadness, but
really it's because you
poured syrup all over my
heart with your sweet words,
wooing me with your gentleness
and care, though your
intentions are far from
clear. It's really because
you took someone as fragile
as me, and made me out
to be stronger than I am
in order to do your damage
without to great a guilt.
I don't know if you mean
for this to be how it ends,
but if you have some plan
to show the congruency of
your actions, then I invite you
to make it known.

I'm dying here.

Put Up

Spit her back out like
an old favourite
you're not allowed to have
anymore,
but just a taste will do,
just a taste will suffice.
You won't gulp,
because
you know once she
hits your system you'll be
infected.
You can't let them know
you're still just as weak
or you'll give up
whatever respect
you've earned in being
abstinent.
But I see you, teasing fate
toeing the line,
feet in both camps,
red handed
and innocent,
all at the same time,
and I have no choice
but to put up and shut up.

Boughs

You light old fires
with wet leaves and
damp sticks, hoping
to ignite some grand
forest fire in order to
feel validated, worth
something, still able
to captivate. But you
don't realize that
you weren't really
that captivating to
begin with. You just
threw the driest
needled branches
onto the flames
and made everyone
watch the show,
only to throw some
more on, as soon
as it started to
dwindle. You are
temporary,
you are fleeting,
and you're running
out of pine boughs.

Buckwheat

By now you've probably
archived all your anger
into this permanent state,
where you only think of
me in red and black, and
speak of me with sharp
bitterness that leaves the
taste of tar behind in your
mouth. It gurgles in the
pit of your stomach, and
thumps in the middle of
your chest, coursing
though your ventricles,
to every extremity.
With every movement
you are trained to only
hate me, conditioned and
taught that there is nothing
worthy in me, nothing
noble that would make
me guiltless, nothing
beautiful that would make
me innocent, and you
eat up this instruction as
if you sincerely want to
believe it. As if you'd rather
believe these distortions,
than the truth.

By now, I bet when people
ask you if you have a sister,
you say "no".

Papillon

I took a pen and wrote 

you a letter only the fire 

would read, and it said, 

"Remember when I told you 

I thought you were nothing 

like my father? Well, that 

was a bold-faced lie. You 

both have the same wild

eyes, the same tone of 

voice, the same dark

mind, and the same ability 

to make me love you 

blindly." 

But what I didn't write 

was the one thing I knew 

would break you:

"...the same thirst to break 

whatever you find beautiful.

Namely me."  

Someone once asked me 

how long it took me to forgive you, 

I said I'd let them know 

as soon as I had. 

Lies and Deception

Smudged eyes,
should have taken that mascara
off before going to sleep,
but it's not as if there's
someone to impress.
Just a reflection in the mirror
that is an unwelcome visitor
most days.
Truth is, I'm not quite
used to this.
You always used to say
"you're too beautiful,
too lovely, too simple"
for all of this frivolity,
but you're a liar.
And though the most
obvious of your lies
were about who you
really were, and not about me,
I find it difficult to tell the
difference anymore, so
I trace the lines around
everything you ever said to me
and count it all
deception,
because it's easier this way.

Queen Station

The man wearing brown hiking boots
is reading a book about trees.
I wonder if he knows
I've just breathed life into him
with my pen strokes,
immortalized him with blue ink,
stolen him from a three dimensional
life, and made him flat.
When I got on at Queen he was already here,
waiting for me to observe
his quiet cry for attention.
Unnoticed by most other passengers,
who are too busy popping gum
to ease the pressure in their ears.
His desire to melt into the burgundy seat
was foiled by those
brown hiking boots.
I don't think he's made eye contact
with a single person, and he
pulls a cookie from his bag and chews,
reading about the largest trees in the world.
B.C and the redwoods,
on his way home
to a blonde wife
to a house on a corner lot
to a front hall closet
with just enough room for his size 12
brown hiking boots.

Rattle

In order to count yourself
among the jaded and the
wounded, you draw out
the lines of an old love that
was nothing more than
a number of little mistakes,
and you know it.

Regurgitating popcorn words,
claiming them as your own
in order to feel vindicated,
justified, and redeemed.
With the subtlety of a Mac truck
you lay out your words like
a street peddler, and we all
wince.

I find it hard to believe
that after all of this time,
you have nothing else to
dwell on. But then again,
I shouldn't expect a child
to be anything but childish.

Stop

You may have already realized
that we're stopped at the side of
the road, on the way to some sort
of destination, unnamed and
undefined. But you should have
noticed sooner, because you're
behind the wheel, and I simply
sit in the passenger seat, and I
wait for you to hit the gas pedal.
How can I expect to move this
along when I'm not the one
who stepped on the breaks in
the first place? Don't think me
indifferent, or cold and out of
touch, but my options are now
but few: wait for you to drive,
or get out and walk.

Bark

Standing up to the
bully
is never more
satisfying
than when my back
is straight,
and supported by a
spine
that's finally grown in.

Afraid of a little woman,
a dog,
simply with a bigger bark
than a bite,
and a sickly man, who
just likes
to be overly eloquent.
I laugh when I remember
the resources
of heaven are much mightier
than men.

No longer down and out,
but up and fighting.

Thomas

With the utmost contrition
I endeavour to speak into
a deep silence that acts as
a punishment all on its own.
Innocence and naivety are
no longer viable excuses
for my lack of faith, I am
Peter on the lake, I am
Thomas holding Your hands, I am
Judas, leaving supper early, I am
not worthy of your patient
understanding, and much too
wayward to ask You to walk
with me, but You still choose
to. You still choose me.
And I consider asking you
why you cling to a broken
child such as me, but I'm
too scared you'll change your
mind, so I finally open my
mouth, and speak loud and
clear: Thank You.

Macbeth

If you could stop
rolling over for a
minute you would
see that your name
has been thrown
overtop of sins
done by those you
thought the world
of, but now that
you're absent from
such a world, hell
has decided to reign.

I stand beside six feet
of rust-coloured dirt
hoping that joining
your realm would
stop the anarchy,
caused by babes of
your making, weaned
and raised by your
hands, days from
the grave but still
using pacifiers to
help them sleep at
night--they destroy.

I wonder if you knew,
and chose ignorance,
or if you were ignorant
and never knew.

Not always, and most times it's exaggerated, but yeah. 

Tank

Her eyes swell up like
a broken limb, filled to
the brim with tears as hot
as boiling water, and it's
as if she hasn't cried in
years, and knowing her,
it very well maybe be the
case.

She shoots me a glance
in the hopes of striking
me dead, but I give her
a look of pity and regard,
extinguishing her hatred.
I remark on how similar she
looks to her father, nearly
identical.

Her sobs grow silent
and her eyes stare blankly,
she doesn't move her head,
doesn't dare crane her neck
to see me reach around,
for a tissue from the second pew
to desperately catch the
tears.

We've come for a funeral,
but I don't cry for the dead.

Leper

Choking on the sadness
that grips my throat and
shoots tears from my eyes
like water guns in the hands
of little children, used to
cool off in mid summer,
I'm exhausted from trying
to understand what made
you disinterested, distant,
simply polite and absent,
it's as if I was charmed
for just a short while, and
you were under my spell
until it wore off, leaving me
hopeless and alone, while
you stepped back to question
what had possessed you to
see anything but pity in me.
So I go mad under this jar,
stewing in all my confused
hope, bathing in all this
unrequited affection, just
aching for a way to be rid
of everything that makes me
remember the faces that I
likely won't see again.

I must have leprosy or something,
because no one sticks around.

Cold Hands

I'm too busy
to chase
too proud to
stoop to
that sort of
desperation
so I am
too busy to
over-think.

I refuse.

So I'll Say Three

I can see you, 

dark room, lit up 

by the white light 

of your screen, 

typing in my first 

name an having the 

rest filled in 

for you. 

You come here often. 

No one knows, 

that you still look 

me up, to relive our 

old stories, old injuries, 

like some masochistic 

therapy, that no one 

will understand 

but you. 

Though I don't wish 

to say more than two 

words to you, please, 

let go. 

Please let go. 

Myocardium

Signals shot,
silenced by frayed
wires, connected to
your ventricles,
and haphazardly
stuck to mine. I
need a boost.

Not simply a jolt,
but an awakening,
to be enlivened again,
so you switch to
the defibrillator,
in the hopes that
I won't give up entirely.

I think we could
avoid all of this
frantic first aid,
if you would just
choose me.
Keeping me half-alive
is torturous.

Wrong

And it took me a while to realize

that nothing about our love was
special, nothing about it was
profound, nothing about it was
uncommon. And shortly after
such a revelation was my attempt
to disprove it, to somehow find
the magic ingredient in "us" that
no one else possessed, because
I used our rare love as an excuse
for all my mistakes. My sins and
my backsliding, my disregard
for the truth, my blindness to all
of your dangerous faults. I thought
we were something no one had
ever been. That we were lovely
and wild, so delicate and passionate.
But we weren't any of those things.

We were simply wrong.

The rarest love I will feel will be
the one I take to my grave, but
our love could barely outlive the
winter cold, let alone the next 60
years.

Peat

Bottom feeder
nibbling at the
corners, you are
the painfully sad
on-looker, who
wants what doesn't
belong to her.

You always have been,
one who loves worthy men
silently, without giving
yourself away, but you
never quite close,
never quite win,
and never quite
learn. I hope this
time you do.

Because his eyes aren't for you,
no matter what you try.

6.5

And I wait for
seven
seven
seven
after six comes
seven
but I feel stalled
on the side of
the road,
infront of your house
seven
steps from the door
waiting for
seven
but only half
way from six,
longing for
the end of
the limbo,
towards
seven.

I miss how you used to
speak without reservation.

North Sidney

Her guilt jumps up
in her throat like a
frog,
in a pond covered in
lily-pads,
as she scans her screen,
picks out my name,
and hits
"delete".

I know it's what she
does to keep her head
up,
in the clouds,
safe,
from her old mistakes,
her old responsibilities
and I've run out of
blame.

It's all been replaced
with a distasteful amount of pity.

Shelley

No more.

No more
of this
silly talk,
of this
can't-get-
you-out-
of-my-
head-talk,
of this
inebriation.

Too much.

Too much
of this
self-injury,
of this
crack-me
open-so
you-can
see-who
I-am,
of this
hope.

No more.

Esso

Open my mouth
and out pours all
of my thoughts
regarding the useless
parts of myself
that I think you'll
be amused by.
But it's pointless,
absurd, and utterly
foolish.

I reach for the
shovel
and step closer to the
plot
and reach deeper into the
grave
and haul out the
sixth foot.

Honey

Honey,
please remember
that your clarity
is simply wishful
thinking, rather
than a promise,
and I'm wishfully
thinking that
you should choose
to stand on the
edge of this ledge
looking over the
unknown with
me
by your side,
holding your strong
hands, while we
close our eyes,
say our prayers
and make the jump
together.

Honey, you're too sweet
to leave all alone.

Day Old

Bakery buns
hot on the wires
beckoning the passers
by, to buy
them for a Sunday
lunch, after church
in November
for his parents,
far from home,
desperate to impress.

A neon pink
triangle shaped
sticker on a crinkled
bag, holding in the
air that ages
the already day-old
buns, on sale
for half price,
desperate,
so desperate for use.

Oh, how stale
is my little heart.

Mortar

This early in the

morning I feel 

nothing but the 

sting of confusion 

and frustrated 

thoughts, crashing 

into the walls in my 

mind, built with 

mortar and fear, 

keeping the hurt out--

or at least attempting 

to do so. 

If you and I 

are intersecting lines 

that are destined to 

move steadily away 

for the rest of 

eternity, 

then my heart will 

surely take a hit, 

of this, 

I am sure. 

6

I try to act distracted
but you come to mind,
swift, and unstoppable,
like a mosquito hits a windshield
going 120,
like a roaring river at the start of
spring time,
like a north wind blows autumn
leaves,
you come to mind,
swift, and unstoppable.

5

And when I listen close
I hear old words of an
old heart that's lived for
100 years or more,
waiting to speak to
me, of all people,
as if I have some aged
wisdom to reply with.
Phrases that bounce
off of the dusty corners
of the room that is your
soul, crying out to me
with a sweetness I've
never heard until now.
And because my lips
are weak and lame,
I simply smile as wide
as my cheeks will allow
to echo your sentiments
and to tell you of my
growing desire to
belong to you.
Please know, that my
eyes are trying to tell you
all the things I have
no words to say, and
I hope you can understand,
because I desperately
desperately
desperately
need you to hear me
out.

Little Ghost

You send shivers
up my spine and
through my skin
though I have yet
to see your face
or know what your
voice sounds like.
You're a little ghost,
laced in words I say
and the words I hear,
smiling your maniacal
smile, eyes glittering
in the darkness,
waiting for me to see.
See, I didn't invite you,
you didn't come into
this equation with me,
so I kindly ask you
to find someone else
to haunt.
You were given up
for good reason,
and I don't care
if you don't have the
faculties to move on--
I've won, you've lost,
and that's all there is
to it.

Periphery

Shadow of a man 

that I once knew.

Or maybe I simply 

thought I knew you; 

you're wasting away 

falling by the wayside 

and no longer in my 

direct line of sight. 

You're living in the 

periphery. 

Finally, I think you 

understand your 

own unimportance, 

as your head begins 

to slowly deflate 

leaving your eyes 

sunken in, and teary. 

And all of these things 

I notice with a passing 

glance, just to check 

if I detect any feeling

within myself, 

and it's only when 

I conclude that 

nothing stirs inside me, 

that I praise God 

for allowing me to shake 

you off of my back. 

And I look away 

without consequence. 

4

Slow,
like a watched-pot boils
and steady
as an ocean after a storm,
still swirling and sloshing,
yet in comparison, so still.
You sweep over me
like the steady warmth of
a morning sun,
or the streams of water
from a summer rain.
All I can do is hold my hands
open to the sky
with gratitude and joy,
laced in my smiles
and ask for the strength,
for the ability and the will,
to see this through.
To see Him though.
To see you through.
Because slow and steady
wins the race.

3

You don't inhabit me
like some foreign disease,
threatening my life,
holding my heart at gunpoint,
but you gently pull the tethers
of these delicately woven affections,
drawing me into some other,
more beautiful place.
A place where I'm not bombarded
or besieged, taken captive, or ignored,
and I see for the first time,
the possibility of joy,
a hope for things I've never dared dream of,
and I pray
for the strength to hold out,
the will to keep my lips sealed
until you take the first step forward.

One thing is for certain:
everything seems brighter.

2

Undoing
chains wrapped around
the box in my mind
that houses my conceptions
on what this should look like,
what you should sound like,
to learn a new way
of deciphering this will.
You're the first page
of a new book,
full of promise and adventure
begging me to keep reading
and I won't hesitate to say
that I'd be happy to oblige.

Broke

Injected with
anxiety that
knocks me off
my size seven feet
and I haven't the time,
the strength or the will
to get back up.
And I start to think
that maybe I'd save time
by just lying here
cold and frozen,
with bones that
won't move,
because in the end
I'll just end up
in this state anyways.
Right?

1

So I'm not quite sure
what to say when you ask,
or what to think when you speak,
how to respond when it's my turn.
All I see are empty rooms,
with doors recently opened,
that were once shut up.

And I smile smile smile.

Godless

Godless woman,
bags full of guilt
under your eyes
peering into lies
that you need to
keep you going.
I only wish that
I knew how to
remind you that
your almost out
of time.

I'm stirring up
all your plans
and you won't
have any idea
who you have
chosen to go
and piss off.
I wonder how
you manage to
sleep without
watching her
die?

She never even
recognized you.
Never wanted to
hear anymore of
your hate.
But you already
know that, don't you?

Shrapnel

Cradled by fists
rather than palms,
wide open to hold
my little red heart,
your love only a tool
used to silence a crying child
used at the right moments,
used, just like me.

Fishing wire and tackle
litter my memory of you.
Kodak memories
shoved into a dismal childhood
making a minefield
out of my head,
knowing that at any moment
my innocence could become shrapnel.

I excuse you,
rationalize for you,
stay silent for you,
let your actions speak for you,
and you ignore me,
forget that you know me,
stop from loving me,
and, like a coward, blame me.

If you never touch me again,
it'll be too soon.

Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

Susans

I poke and prod
at the earth above me
hoping to find some soft spot
to break the ground.
As I do,
my eye sees shades
of green and grey
crawling over the surface
of this boneyard,
and at last, I can breathe.
A soft breeze directs my gaze
in all directions
and I soak in roses and potted plants;
jealous of their rich beauty,
while I offer nothing but yellow petals,
and a black center.
A large stone,
tall and solemn,
carries a name I do not know.
It rests behind me like giant--
sleeping, and will never wake.
And I am but a stray wildflower,
sentenced to adorn this plot,
while my roots reach down
to a nameless master.
All I can do
is just sway, sway, sway,
in this potter's field.

Dear Stranger

A few months ago someone put a note in my school mailbox that encouraged me enormously.
They said they loved my poetry and my voice and hoped I would find growth, love, and happiness in my journey through life. They signed it "a stranger you've inspired".

To that person: thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I have purpose. That I'm of value. Thank you for the ways your note touched me, that I have no words to express.

I don't know if that person will see this, but if they do, thank you.

Leaves

Drunk on tea leaves
straight from Dublin,
and my eyes see
everything much clearer,
with more warmth,
and more colour
than when I am seemingly sober.
I see visions of you,
your strong hands and
your good heart,
overflowing and
filling the space between us
until I am swept up
in the tenderness of your love,
the strength of your voice,
your honest faith,
and your oversized devotion.
And it's only when I notice
that you're fading from my view
that I reach for the kettle,
grab the sugar bowl,
and make another cup of tea.

Almost

Another night and I am
cold
writhing between sheets, paper
thin
wondering, if somewhere you are
just
as cold
as me.

Your hands, grip the edge of the
bed
and your eyes refuse to
shut
and you're hoping I'm still awake--
just
as restless
as you.

I only know the warmth of your
heart,
and the sound of your strong
voice
though I've yet to hear it, I am
just
as impatient
as you.

You sleep knowing that
soon
you'll be led in my
direction,
and you'll be
just
as thankful
as me.

Aubade

I hold hands with the willow branches
and twirl and twirl and twirl
as my green dress flutters and spins
around me like a carousel
and I sing sweet songs that I wrote for you
and pray that you'll faintly hear them
from wherever you are,
from whatever chair you occupy,
and come out of doors to find me.
My heart is alarmed with the rush
of what it feels like to love you
and all I can do to quell
the endless stirring of my affections
is to pronounce it to all who'll hear.
And I deeply know,
that you will discover me here,
frolicking among the willows,
and grin from ear to ear.
You will tell me how you've waited
to hear the soft melody I've sung,
so that you may finally find the one
for whom you've longed.

No longer will I hold hands
with the limp willow branches.

To Try

...and I don't think it's due to

a lack of want or desire, 

but a lack of trying 

on no one's part but my own. 

Trying, to step over dividing lines 

and push against glass ceilings 

that cripple me. 

That cripple us. 

I don't try because I can't win, 

(or at least my heart tells me so)

and I know that if I try and fail, 

I will loose more than I ever wanted to. 

An age old weakness 

sleeps in my little heart, 

stopping me from attaining 

all my loftiest hopes, 

and though I point my finger 

to a faceless, voiceless cause, 

I know the fault is no one's but mine. 

If I never have you, 

it will be no ones fault but mine. 

Salve

There's no salve for these cracked lips
raw and burning,
and never perfectly healed.
I sleep and don't speak for hours,
as each cut seals over,
and I forget, for a little while,
that I feel any agony at all.
Yet when I awake,
and try to mutter the smallest phrase,
the smallest cry,
or muster the smallest grin,
my sores tear open,
and I am not longer so forgetful.
So it is,
when I part my lips I receive nothing
but stinging pain and chagrin.
Wincing in despair that no one can quel,
untouchable parts of me that no one dare defy,
the very gates to my soul,
besieged and overtaken by
pain, that is dull but ever present,
pain, that subsides, but never leaves,
pain, that seems menial, but is never far from my mind,
pain, that when expressed, never receives aid.

And that, my friend,
is incentive enough
to keep my mouth closed.

Wicklow

To often have I aimed
to construct a seamless set
of eloquent phrases
made of only the ripest words,
but each time my pen
falls inches short from the page,
and my heart wrenches and pulls
at the truths I keep concealed.
I wish them to be thrust
into the light of all that you are
but my own crippling fear
keeps you wandering in the dark.
I can't offer you anything,
no match, no candle, no lamp
only my hand.
Though I'm unable
(at least at this point and time)
to offer you more than these worthless reflections,
I will do what I know best:
I'll remain.

Abaddon

Lord, I beg 
please not Abaddon, 
for my mother of another kind, 
my secret-keeper and friend. 
I can't bear 
to think of the darkness
that could have covered her
when she was the only light 
that shone in my world. 
Mother, I beg
please not Abaddon
for I know death 
has no victory over this earth, 
I just hope that you chose
not to allow its victory 
over your heart. 
You have been taken. 
Pulled to a place 
where I can't reach you, 
lifeless in the same bed 
that once held your soul, 
and now I'm alone 
to wonder how long you'll be gone,
why you decided to go, 
and if I'll ever be allowed 
to see you again. 
So, parent of my heart, 
where are you? 
Lost in the expanse 
that I can't comprehend, 
though my finite mind 
searches for you 
with flashlights in the dark, 
hoping for some sign 
that you found the light 
rather than having Abaddon
find you. 


I miss you. 

Plea(se)

I said, "no, no, no"
as I held your hand,
cold like bath tiles
on bare feet.
You couldn't hear me
but it didn't really matter,
I meant it more as a prayer
than an actual command.

he said, "it's okay, okay, okay"
as he grabbed my arm
and promised me things
that were out of his control.
One can't promise peace,
while at the bedside of the dead,
as that soul slips further away
from love, light, and life.

I say, "be quiet, quiet, quiet"
as I contrive a suitable case
to bring before heaven
for the redemption of just one.
See, if my concentration is broken,
maybe He won't hear me,
and my childish pleas will fall
on ears that have turned deaf.

He says, "I hear, hear, hear,
and please, leave this to me".

Public Service Announcement

Oh hey there, people who read this.

If for some reason you feel like any of this poetry is about you, then maybe you should stop reading it.

Poetry is an expression of emotion that is liable to hyperbolic exaggeration and other such things. Not everything I write is about me, or people I know. If you interpret it as such, then that is not my problem.

There you go. You've all been warned.

I'm going now.

--Lena

Porcelain

I know. I know. I know.
Don't think me ill-disposed,
though my words are sharp,
I only seek reparation
(that you never truly gave me)
and you surely can't fault me
for that, now can you?
I'm still the gentle soul
that once lit up in your presence
but I'm also a smashed doll,
with a lacerated heart,
and a soiled rag,
unable to become white again.
So I buy my freedom with words
that uncage my porcelain body,
but I swear, I never intended
to lock you up in my stead.
You are seemingly nothing more
than an unfortunate casualty.

This is not an apology,
but rather, my defence.

For Mark

my hiatus with rhyming

has come to an end 

it came in good timing 

at the request of a friend 

so here you go Mark, 

something that's "structured" 

you'd better appreciate it, 

as my free-verse has been ruptured. 

i hope that you're happy, 

I hope that you're grand 

I wrote you some rhymes, 

though personally I find them bland. 

FIN

Eradicate

You have the same nervous twitch 

as you've always had 

and you have the same jarring gaze 

that finds me every time. 

You occupy the part of my mind 

that I'm trying to eradicate, 

You are the part of my heart

that I am having removed. 

You are the memories and moments 

that I am steadily overwriting

and you are the mangy stray dog 

that I am choosing to ignore.

Your presence no longer has potency, 

I am not swayed or stilled by you, 

and you can move in and out of these rooms 

as you wish; I won't notice. 

See, you've stayed the same, 

never changed or grown,

like the waves of the sea, 

like a chronic disease, 

and I have no need 

of you

at all. 

Insolent

I was told
never to pray for patience,
and in a fit of desperation,
of losing self-control,
I asked for just that.
And now I suffer
through long days
searching for some way
to unbind this prayer,
but I am chained
to the words my mouth spat out.
Waiting, like spit in open wounds,
painfully still while I ache to move
towards every desire
every lasting dream
my childhood heart contains.
My bones toss,
restless and unsatisfied,
held to the ground with
spiritual super glue--
I am a stagnant river.
Though my Father counts it virtuous,
I count it torturous.

Forgive me, my insolence.

Spies

Hello, old friend.
My muse,
gone dry and old
rusty and useless,
you are a fly
constantly on my every wall,
peering into a life
that you were once such a part of.
My life.
No more.
Yet still,
you search every crevice
every outlet I occupy
to find me at my weakest,
my most vulnerable
and you peek into my heart
just a few moments longer,
hoping to figure me out.
I have discovered you,
persistent, little spy,
and I will no longer entertain.

Every crack is sealed,
Every entrance blocked,
your days of leeching on my life
are done.

Love, Lena

 He looked straight ahead and said,
"maybe you won't feel anything,
until you reach the big moments
that used to be filled with her presence.
Like Christmas and birthdays,
Easter, and Mother's Day."
I stared out the window,
as we drove down the highway,
headed for safety,
headed for a hiding place.
And though I'd asked him
a different question,
I knew his answer was the right one,
and the wisest words I'd been offered thence far.
Three months later,
those words stay completely true,
as the lights are up,
the stockings hung,
and I look for something that will never,
ever, be under any tree.

Merry Christmas, momma.

This Is Self-Refuting

I haven't written 
anything of importance. 
Nothing delicate, 
nothing whimsical 
nothing real 
in weeks. 
And tonight, 
to fill this space, 
to stop its idleness, 
I force something out. 
I am dry. 
Barren, like a woman 
who is unable to birth 
something precious. 
And it's not for a lack of trying, 
it's not because I have no 
living inspirations, 
no painful heart cries, 
or past ghosts, 
it's just that my mind
and my heart
and my fingers 
are all at odds. 


I wonder, 
if I've ever written anything of consequence,
or just wasted my time?

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.