The grapes haven't spoiled yet, but
will now never be tasted.
The cut flowers
still have some perplexing
life in them.
Hanging from a
tree branch, I find a message
written by a dead woman.
There's a bookmark
embedded between the
pages of a hardback, like
Excalibur lodged in
stone, and I
cannot pull it out.
It hurts to walk along
certain corridors,
past certain doors, with
no one behind them
calling to me.  
The radio is tuned to Ghost FM,
and nobody with a pulse
gets airtime.  
Digital photographs of
fading analogue memories.

Yet still small shoots persist
in breaking through this dark, cold dirt, and
inexplicably blossoming.

she smelled
of quiet snowfall
at 2AM on Sunday.

she left me
some months ago
and I am still
washing her out
of my bedsheets

my love, you are more.

you are more than the voices inside your head
telling you that
                             you
                                      are
                   ­                           not
                                  ­                    enough.

you are more than their whispers of judgment
                                                        ­                           and
                                                             ­       hatred.

you are more than the words that people tell you
about how
                          you
                               ­        should
                                                          ­be.

you are your own unique vessel

                                  and to be loved is what you deserve.