you are an optimist
and you see the potential in everything
but please,
do not see my potential,
see me as i am now.

he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs,
cleared the air and breathed his blood.

he made a universe
of stars made of her
they had her name and they breathed life.

he loved her
because he thought it meant
loving himself
but he should've known that
two explosions, when finished,
eventually result
in darkness.

he thought the universe was heavy,
yet he carried her to bed every night
for a week and a half
while she battled her tears
over “what if?”
and he would put her to sleep
with gentle cradling and soft whispering
because he knew stars needed to sleep too.

he made flowers grow
in her body,
he let their stems wrap tightly
around her ribs and hold her together,
and he was scared of the darkness,
but he'd come to love the eerie glow
of the moonlight.
his fingers were drowned
in the outpouring of her agony,
and they were fixed to her cheeks
like constellations in the sky.
the person she used to be
was now a faint ghost,
etched into his memory,
but it was how he kept her alive.

the things he thought about most
were the things he talked about least
often times,
the sounds of their children's laughter
stained the fibres of his mind,
but he couldn't recall those sounds,
for they had been replaced
by his wife's shaky breaths
and painful cries.

he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs.
perhaps that was where she should be,
for maybe life can begin to grow again
and wrap tightly around her ribs
and possibly, maybe, hopefully,
hold her together.

he wished the flowers good luck,
because even gravity
couldn't bind the universe.

did you know
that no means no?

what does it mean?
it means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no should not be the last thing
you scream and cry in pain
as your body is manipulated
by somebody of your kind
that is supposed to be your equal.

no means no.
it should not be followed by
if's or but's or why's.
but,
it is.
because no is not enough.

no means no.
it is not any less loud
because it appeals
under the tinge of toxicity
or painkillers.
no is coming from a human.

no means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no is not a joking matter,
it is not the background vocals
for your hymn of menacing laughter
and aggressive fits.

no means no.
it means denying consent,
it means this isn't okay,
it means i do not like this,
it means please stop.

no means no,
no.
no.
no.
no.
no more aggression towards people
you ache for power over.
no more trying to fulfil your sad fantasies
of distress and desolation.

did you know
that no means no?
or couldn't you hear us
over the sound of your innocent victim
screaming,
                “no” ?

wallpaper women
are ripped down in single sheets,
replaced by prettier ones
with more labyrinthine markings
and colours that shine,
but even then, a picture is placed overtop,
in a fine gold frame and a fibre canvas
with artwork drawn by feeble hands

wallpaper women,
are women.
they are you and i. we are bystanders,
eager to scream out, but a single hand
covers our mouths like a veneer.
we are to blend in,
we are to not speak,
unless we are asking,
“how may i take your order?”
we are a service, a factory,
we keep the world going.

wallpaper women
are artwork,
art that is not noticed by them,
who continue to believe
they are mere pieces of decoration,
something to make the walls pretty.
if we are artwork, why are we covered
with frames and photos and decoration?

wallpaper women
are people.
we are nurturers by nature,
lovers through hatred.
and so many refuse to see
the storm above the soft clouds.

wallpaper women
are told to blend in.
but we are ripped down like pages out of a book,
crumpled up and thrown into nothing.
if you value the story so much,
why do you keep taking pages out?

wallpaper women
are not the future,
they are the past.

women are the future.
women.
women.
women,
            need to be heard.
women need to say “i am here too”
because we are not
just wallpaper,
we are beautiful ****** artwork
that deserves to be seen by
every
        ******
                    one

a childhood
ripped away so quickly
i felt it's whisk
like a smack to the face.

the grey lines
stopped appearing on the wall
after four foot one
and christmas presents piled up
in the untouched room
you once brought life to.

once upon a time,
we had just enough, perhaps a little less,
and now we have more,
always extras.

i can feel your warm hands
as they sit neatly in mine.
i can see your contagious laughter
and the lines you get on your forehead.

report cards stopped coming in,
as did paintings and mother's day cards.
toys stayed as dolls and crayons,
never did they graduate to more.
our house looks so innocent,
but the impurities speak otherwise.

your little boots still sit at the door,
red and shiny and untouched.
a baby coat hangs above them,
mud covering the bottom half in entirety.

and i will continue to sit on the rocking chair
in the corner of your bedroom,
cradling your blanket so ****** tightly
it's fibres embed themselves in me,

for all that started off as miracles
fade too soon.

the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.

i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.

i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.

i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.

i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.

i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.

when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.

i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.

tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.

i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.

your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.

the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;

a house with things
that even i can't pack away.

my mind scrambles,
trying to place you
i search endlessly,
wondering if you are in a field
of freedom and daisies,
or if you are stranded
in an ocean as deep as the crevices
of my mind.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

you cannot be with the fires,
for they are far too hot
and you have been burned
far too many times.
i do not have enough fingers to count
the times i have cradled your crying body to sleep.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

i tried to put you in my pocket,
but i didn't want you to feel small.
to me, you are the universe,
you are all i see.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

yesterday, you expressed yourself
as ink bleeding into the fibres of my notebook.
but you cannot be in books,
for they are closed and ended
and you are not.

i place you somewhere
i can see you

perhaps you are in the cotton threads
of that stupid royal blue blanket
that i have wrapped myself up in
every night since you died.

i stopped placing you somewhere
that would one day be gone,
for you are forever
and the world is not.

i place you beside me,
you've been there all along.