The roses I planted might never grow.
Maybe they know better.
They don't want to be picked
and handed to a loveless woman
to die in a vase, forgotten on the sill.

You're so cold to touch
on this grey morning.
He promised we'd be forever young
but it's only an eternal dream
with an inevitable end.
The sign said happiness for rent
and I'd take that over a home.
I don't want to know the gory details
and I'd rather not look at the broken souls.
Is this how we intend to live out our days?
I just want to go home once more.

I used to count the stars
when I was anxious.

It was beautiful when
they fell from the sky.
Everyone took pictures
and spoke of the
art of destruction.

There are no stars now
and the night grows cold
and all anyone does
is ask *why?

How do I sleep?
I realize I don't do it
as often as I should.
I lie awake and stare at the ceiling
as the walls close in
and the darkness is blinding
and the silence deafening,
How do I sleep?
I need the rest.
My eyes hurt.