The roses are dead,
they had barely turned red,
in the morning
I rose to them withered.

The sun made no sound
as it stood from the ground
to illuminate
the absence of life.

Oh, it stung like a thorn
to see this at dawn;
my heart shrivelled up
like those petals.

“They look red to me?”-
the others can’t see
those dead roses
that sit on our table.

“It’s all in your mind,
the roses are fine;
so are you,
if you give yourself time.”

Still here,
beating.

I stand over the girl from my past.

My shadow is a mass, but I am Liberty,
in her stance,
in her strength,
in the sunlight.

Twice struck,
second one has stuck
in deep,
enough to blur the world around me-
around him.

Never mind the darker hours
 (they aren’t important);
what is crucial, is the breath in my lungs.

The weight of your head,
like the whole globe on your shoulders,
the world on one neck,
the ache of one body.

I’m tired, like all of the stress simply sits on my dreams

while I’m trying to sleep it away,
but I don’t get a break-
not even one day.

At least the bowl isn’t red anymore,
at least the sun is alight.
But I’ve ached for a year now, and it’s still so unclear how
I will heal, or if ever I will.

Keep sunny, keep yellow,
like the lilies in bloom
which sit on the drawers
at the end of my room.

The weight of my head,
like the whole globe on my shoulders,
the world on one neck,
the ache of one body.

Don’t allow grey skies to dampen your hair,
soak up your shirt,
seep into your
socks.

Let the tears fall if they brew under-lid,
saltwater
cleanses and
soothes.

Don’t stay up late ‘til the birds start to talk,
spreading secrets
you don’t need to
hear.

Smoke always rises and wind blows you sideways-
even gorse ****
has bright yellow
bloom.

Wild children have been here
to throw glitter in the green,
in the sun it does shimmer
and glimmer and gleam.

While the dew does sparkle,
the birds babble on,
flitting and swooping
on rays of the sun.

Butterflies dance
between evergreen trees,
carried by birdsong
and the early spring breeze.

They flit and they float,
in the colour of honey,
the kind that is golden,
delicious and runny.

I don't believe in soul mates
What I do believe in
Is people that connect
On some deeper level
Immediately upon acquaintance
And not meaning you agree
On where to eat for dinner
But the connection where your heart
Seems to slip out
Of your rib cage
Because it's found a home
Outside of your chest.

Another morning, girl wakes to the sun
sitting on one cheek.

Born again, her lashes dense with dreams.
Could she roll over
and delve into emptiness
for just a moment longer?

Girl rises nonetheless, girl folds herself into clothes.

How to live repeatedly, relentlessly
without knowing for sure what it is that girl is living for?

Is it just another day in which to smile?
To soak up knowledge? Or to
leap right over the edge of comfort
and say something she truly means?
No, she couldn’t possibly do something like that.

Do thoughtless humans lead better lives?

Outside, memories fall on girl like sycamore seeds.
Reality, girl knows, has only just begun
to stir up the world she never thought could be so overwhelming and
underwhelming
all at once.

Small reminders swallow girl whole-
that no one truly knows anything.

She’s wondering now, if she can actually feel
the shape of her soul becoming a
xenomorph (unusually and irregularly shaped).

Sun rays will wake girl once again,
zigzagging across her skin.