I’m too sad
to make my bed today

I’m not done hating you yet,
Darling.

these days, emptiness is beginning to look more like a poem that writes itself. the irony is it is everything i can't be and everything i am

I used to deny myself death
as i was learned inflicting it
  would send me to hell.

I guess it saved me

I still bathe in that wish.
counting as they slowly wilt away,
  my white pedals of ash.
   the reward of risking the whole flower.

a hand
you gave me a leg
and tripped me
till I fell flat
on my face

When I needed
a shoulder
to cry on
you gave me yours –
cold
to rely on

When I needed
a mirror
to reflect my light
you smashed it in pieces
all over the floor
throwing the frame
in an empty drawer

When I needed
a friend
you were a stranger
and stranger still –
I stuck with you