It's in the act of
Unlocking the front door
Leaving the chill of the outside
For the warmth of home

It's in the dog that comes
Snuffling happily at your feet
The cat that pads up quietly
Reluctantly curling around your ankles

It's in the bowl that sits
Still warm in the microwave
And the accompanying note
Wrapped around the spoon

It's in the moment
Of stepping into the shower
And letting the hot spray
Wash the day's grime and cares off

It's coming home to you
Snoring under the covers
Smelling like soap and sleep
As you wake up a little
To tug me closer and kiss me goodnight

You'll find ashes in the keys
from when I burned to stop the bleed,
and you can choose to think of me
but I know you won't.
When you go to say you're sorry,
I hope you don't.

You remembered the honey to go with the cream for the tea that I drink while I'm reading.
Later I'll bend like the bind of my book so to show you the depth of its meaning.

He (is sullen and shaking
and sunken-in so
that he somehow seems shrunken
despite that he's grown,
but he) carries me dutifully
home through a storm
and my shirt may be soaked,
but my feet are still warm.

He trudges (begrudgingly)
over the curbs.
(I cry out for help but
I mince my own words.
I'm hurting him, heavy;
but) his arms seem steady,
intent and so ready
to hold me(,
I hope true, to the words
that he's told me).

(Please,) "Don't put me down
(let me down) just yet."
"Turn your key in the door
and forget about this."
(So I lie through my teeth)
"Thanks for bringing me home,"
(sooner you'd left me then
than leave now and alone).

Let me see your sadness

Let me play with
the shades of
your mind

Swirling
like paints
on a palette knife


You think of it excess
I find it divine

You can show me your sadness
It reminds me of mine

i've neglected to notice—
may as well say 'ignored'

only ivory nails
scratching emery, bored

but then every-so-often
it catches my ear

and it says the one thing
but with two things to hear

I don't know what to do with it:
the way everything's making me sick.
I want some semblance of control
and not its dark-matter twin.

It all makes me sick,
to my heart and my stomach.
I can't seem to quit
and I can't overcome it.
So self-inflicted,
(or maybe it wasn't?)
The thought makes me sick
so I'll think nothing of it.