Amour,
the sun in your cavern eyes
which in the light
faint into demise

of all you hide
burdens and bones
heavy secrets
thoughts of stone

and when sunshine
hits your hazel windows
the sleepless nights
swim like lost minnows

in depths of water
silk, smooth, and storm
sirens singing
sinking in swarms

of butterflies
from rays of sun
though in your eyes
the rays are shunned

the great abyss
of secrets kept
glow no more than opaque gems of amber
for when the moon shines
those same secrets shine translucent shrines
of spilling syrup.

and only to the moonlight
do those hazel depths respond.

too high and you die
too down and you drown
too carless and you lose
too careful and you choose.

in a silent house

i hear her crying,
him dying,
and the dead ladybugs flying.

when you're a star, watching a planet collapse in on itself … into dust, into nothing.

a little revelation.
where did my mind go when i left my heart in the car?
i let my mind wander a little too far.
where were my good intentions, i forgot them at home.
leaving my pride and my bad ones alone.
it got to my mind, and when it came back
my heart found the remnants and then it turned black;
but sense came along and pulled them off their throne,
and brought them back to my good intentions at home.

All of us are born.
Some live; others just exist.
We all die; some are.

Before the crows wake
I'd better collect the light
the moon has left me.

She stood next to the mantle
her hair was dark, that's all I noticed.
She said some things to me,
I was afraid.
I dreamt her.
When I woke up she wasn't there,
but when I fell asleep, she was there.
Waiting.
A ghost.
The one she heard when leaving.
Well, pretty little girl,
Go away. Leave us alone. Stay warm elsewhere, please.
Next time I don't want to be forgiving.

I am from
the old brick house at the bottom of a hill;
from a small, sunny backyard;
that twilight taste of cigarette smoke from my neighbour.

I am from midnight walks through the park,
snow angels in the snow,
a house among the trees and hide-and-go-seek on rooftops.

I am from lots of bed time stories,
another one, mommy. Please?
Sitting on the staircase, contemplating whether I should ask to sleep with them because the monster scared me away.

I am from cousins and sleepovers in the summer-shed;
swinging for hours in their living room;
playing minecraft way longer than we should have;
from tag in the woods and more hide and seek down by the creek.

I am from waiting in my room 'till midnight just to make sure he got home safe and sound.
I am from watching the smoke from chimneys in the night,
from thinking that the park was on fire.

Going to twenty different places,
seeing oceans and mountains and adventures,
missing them.

From my first ballet class (and hating it),
from all those competitions and ribbons and costumes,
promising it was my last year every time and finally regretting it when it really was.

I am from going to Grandpa's house everyday after school.
I remember him in his rocking chair, with the cat in his lap, treats waiting our arrival.
He doesn't sit there any longer.

I am from wishing and watching and waiting for nothing.
I am from piles of paper and journals hidden in the corners of my room, scattered with words and memories.

I am from my sister. My mother. My father.

I am from flowers and forget me nots and daisies and lupins.
From the books on my shelves, half of them unread.

I am from staring at my ceiling fan, asking God what was wrong with me.
I am from my Black Book, where those heavy feelings linger.

From those first two weeks of quarantine, reading so much I actually couldn't see properly. And not regretting it at all.

I am from denial, denial, denial was the truth.
But hey, Grace, it's sitting right there in front of you.
Might as well embrace it.

I am from being the sentimental one.
Keeping those shoes that don't fit because I wore them on my trip.
I am from almost diving in too deep.

Sigh

I am from letting go. From love. From memories.
But where I'm from, is letting go.

A pretty little precipice as I look down.
Oops, I went over. I am going to drown.

When you sing,
the wind responds
against my shoulders;
a lasting ring.

An echo
coming from the empty surface
of the Ocean.
A voice, capturing a soul
too weak to resist such melancholy.
She has desolation hidden in the hollow harmony:
the broken spell has me wanting it more.

I take a step into mellow waters,
salt sticking to my skin,
burning my eyes,
fulfilling her command.
Soon the Ocean's at my neck,
my chin,
lingering above my parted lips.
I hesitate,
wait for her song to call once more.
The water floods in.
I am suffocating,
but I want to.

It's such a peaceful thing,
watching the sky disappear above you.
I was sinking to the bottom
of a hungry abyss.

If I was offered a million dollars or a hug from him, I would choose the hug. Without thought.

That's what she wrote.

I prayed for her.
Please God, if this is the last thing I ever ask of you, give her the strength and hope to surge through.
Please do.
I wish I could take it instead of her.
I wish she didn't have to suffer alone.
But isn't it the things we mind that help us appreciate the things we love?
Still. I hate it when she hurts.

Je pense, soulement.
Je me souviens les jours de toi.
Pour quoi?
Je ne sais pas.
Je t'adore. Je sais que tu sais ça mais je dis-le anyhow.

I'd rather not go to sleep
by 10pm,
or find my pants and shirt,
and just suffer in the morning.
I'd rather not organize my papers,
charge my laptop,
clean up my crayons.
I'll do it tomorrow instead.
I'd rather not think or feel
or remember how much I miss you.
Instead
I'll suffer
in the
morning.

Write and
Write and
Write and
Write.
With your pencil
Be the knight.

What am I to do?
Even when I'm not thinking,
I'm thinking of you.

I used to be happy
Ignore the heavy things.
Tread and tread and pretend that nothing was below me.

But there are things that lurk.
Monsters and darkness.
While I sank, I sung out about how well I could swim.

And then she was sinking
And I learned how to swim
But I never taught her.

Just keep swimming
I tell her.
soon enough the mermaids will scare them away
I hope she believes me.
I hope she is strong enough to withstand the wretched currents.
I love you. I hope that is enough.

Is it unfair that I kept such a thing?
I should've warned you about how aggressive the waves are;
and reminded you that the morning after is a sea of flat waters.

I've spent
years of tears
and now I'm broke.
But, my darling,
it's not worth so much
if it cost you all that anyway.

What is it you want?
Absent-mindedly pick them
to better decide.

I went in
the water was cool and healing
at first.
I saw the moon cry into her reflection,
she tried desperately to pull the tides away.
But foolish me;
I swam out,
practically asking the ocean to drown me,
I loved her cool caress on my skin.
My skin was like a midnight sky
full of stars.
I was lucky.
When I washed up on shore the next morning
I found out I was drunk on salt
and
the ocean left a desert of it out there.

Compromise feels
only like my complete demise;
I am solely right.

I think myself tall
compared to all below me.
I've never looked up.

I'm feeling somewhat melancholy,
thinking things that make me so.

It feels like such a gloomy ending,
but when something ends, there is a new beginning.
And beginnings give me hope for what's more.

I love you.
I would do a thousand things for you.
I would do anything for you.
And it hurts to love you because if something happened to you then what would I do?

What a selfish girl I am.

But it's true.
What would I do
if I didn't have you?

I sip away my sorrows
by drowning them in the heat of my tea
and pay better attention to the nice warm feeling of it sinking to the bottom of my stomach
rather than think about the stranger that wouldn't look away

You look for me in the stars,
but I am really in the space between.
I am not one star,
but the invisible lines that connect them
that create the constellation.

You appear so frail and delicate,
but beneath your pretty petals are your thorns.

September Jane,
all but plain
standing in
the pretty rain.

Her hair is stained
with pretty rain;
umbrella left
atop the pane.

My sweet September,
do you remember
the pretty rain,
the dying embers?

The stories read
before bed,
the funny rhymes
you always said.

September Jane
where did you go?
I'll greet you when you come.

September Jane
you didn't know
it is the pretty rain you're from.

Forget me not,
or if you do,
I promise to
forgive you.

--Can if you
really want to,
if you're through
with nothing to do.