carve

carving each breathe/ from one word/ to the next/ wondering if survival ends/ when the last letter/ of the last word/ sits still in its groove/ as shavings of memories/ lay strewn

.she writes.

she writes poems for me
because the words can never seem to fall from her lips
yet the ink that stains her paper holds more weight,
more truth,
than I’ve ever heard her mutter out loud
my intense desire to hear those words, rather than run my fingers over flat black marks piques her interest
for she’s incapable of living and loving out loud
all her feelings are trapped between two surfaces
while she’s a prisoner in her thoughts
and I often wonder how we would be, together, if she was free

Untitled

I love you
Fell like shards of glass onto linoleum
Cracked pieces scattered everywhere so the truth could not be recovered
Picking up my heart again with a dustpan and a broom
Stooped low towards the ground listening to the melody of heartache
Smash against reality
Sometimes it's not worth knowing the words to the same song
If you'll only burrow inside the sound to escape
Chastising myself and taking a vow of silence from the L word
The capacity to succumb reduced with my feet firmly planted on the ground
I'd rather stand alone than fall and break
There's only so much of me left