She kept her emotions
under her head
ignoring always
whatever heart said

she let her brain lead
cause she had a fear
that she'll get hurt
if she lend heart an ear

she had seen people
who followed their hearts
and ended up broken
with the ugly scars

she decided to do
what she deemed wise
locking her heart alone
muffling it's cries

her brain eased the pain
as her heart bled
changing it's color
to pitch black from red

she witnessed her failure
and soul falling apart
she could do nothing
as she was cursed by heart.

They thought she'd be Sassy,
You'll read she's no Lassie;
So they chose an Isle,
For kin and kith,
Meaning more than breadth and width;
Henceforth she's called Skye.

She's a dimunitive terrier,
She'll not be a harrier;
She'd fall down the holes
Chasing rabbits and voles,
And never be heard of again.

Too quiet for a guard dog,
In the pack, she's no lead dog;
If she tried herding sheep,
They'd bleat in their sleep,
And the sheep would lay down
For the wolves.

She's no sledder like Buck,
She can't carry a duck,
And certainly no fighter like Fang.
She's no Rin Tin Tin,
Can't run fast like him,
And she's not sleek like Roy Rogers' Bullet.

She won't find a body
Buried under the snow,
And she won't win blue ribbons
At any dog show.
But I'm convinced
By her snuffles
She's well worth the trouuble,
I'll take her out hunting
In the woods
For my truffles.

She held more secrets than seconds in a day,
mumbling pained confessions in hushed whispers
that bled out like stab wounds trailing paths
on white snow,
painting a china doll façade made of scarlet
as an eloquent attempt to mask the fragility
she aspired to hold

And that is just what she did,

She held,

onto hopes dangling from the edge of skyscrapers,
breath permanently stolen from her lungs
despite shaking hands itching to let go

storing memories made of dust within damaged pockets
even when the weight got so gruesome
she could no longer bear to walk
with a soul made entirely of gray matter,
training heartstrings to stretch
and cradle every delicate moment
she feared losing
before they could even take place


She is the girl who will collect your voicemails,
hoarding letters like seashells
resting along abandoned shorelines
due to the danger of losing the soft breaths
of the only one who was capable
of breaking all of her rules,
who whispered her name like
unfinished stanzas of a poem
she did not know how to write

Fear,
and fear alone-
of the potential that the ocean could swallow
the glass shards and kiss the remnants of her joy
goodnight
before she could even feel them
splashing against the same skin
she never felt at home in

Shadows and ghosts
they eat at my soul
to old to feel the kick
to young to feel at rest
symmetry in a crooked line
acrid water that turns to wine
a cold patch in a heated room
voices in an empty hall
dark shapes in the corner of an eye
wish I could get some sleep
forever in peace,
in the last of these days.

Lying makes a placeholder for the inevitable truth. The lie will become the truth, as a rectangle can be squeezed back into a square.