It is a beautiful day.

The heavens are crying like they haven’t in months. The sky is grey, but not the gloomy, thunderstorm grey we normally see this time of year. No, it’s the kind of grey that has a backsplash of light, like the sun was shining and a shallow mist rolled through. It’s all just one shade, like a normal blue sky that has simply been greyscaled, like a filter on your phone. But this is not the kind of grey that you could take a photo of. No, it’s not. Go ahead and try.

It is a beautiful day.

Days like these are my favourite days. I woke up this morning, took a shower, washed my hair, shaved my legs, washed my face, brushed my teeth. I curled up in bed for a while to reminisce in the warmth of the previous night. I put on a sweater two sizes too big, fleece-lined leggings, and Irish cottage socks. I felt as though I was made for one of those artsy, hipster pictures you see on your Tumblr dash every once in a while. I even had a coffee, two creams, one sugar.

It is a beautiful day.

I planned to go for a walk in the fields today, let myself become drenched so that I could curl up in fuzzy blankets upon return to my home. I longed to feel the squish of mud in the tracks of my boots, to hear the sheep bleating in the distance. I wanted to stumble through the little path in the woods that only I know is there. This daydream was interrupted by the sound of chainsaws.

It was a beautiful day.

Orange everywhere, from the workers’ vests and hats to the road signs to the truck itself. Some man, some poor, sad man was sixty feet in the air, hacking at the branches of the tree in my front yard. My tree. “It’s to clear room for the telephone wires, miss,” he assured, but it didn’t seem very assuring. Orange, so much orange, that it made the grey seem…wrong.

It was a beautiful day.

Cutting off the branches of my hundred-year-old tree so that it wouldn’t impose upon the telephone wires. To hell with the telephone wires. Put them somewhere else. “My tree was here first,” I say. “Sorry miss, take it up with the telephone company.” Of course it’s too late now; the branches hit the ground. A few men come and pick them up and throw them in the wood chipper.

It was a beautiful day.

Sad, lost boy,
Come hold my hand.
We can take a stroll by the river,
Sit on rusted benches
And hand jingling coins to Old John.
He’ll smile and kiss my hand;
Do not fret, he means well.
Stop by the coffee house along the way,
With drinks we don’t know how to order.
We’ll be stuck for an hour as the barista
Talks about his next drag show,
And tells us all about his new wig.
Walk along broken sidewalks,
Tripping over our own feet
As the sunlight fades to purple and black.
Sad, lost boy,
Come hold my hand.

I wear upon my head this crown of thorns.
All the roses have been plucked away
By the beggars and the rulers and the cowards.
They smashed them like blood on the streets.
I am left only with this misunderstood skeleton,
The armour that did not protect them.
I am seen now as barbed wire;
Some dangerous, hostile being,
Secluded by my own fortress.
The new faces in the crowd do not know
That long ago I wore a crown of roses.
The only see the jaded corpse,
What’s left of me.

I fall in love with self-destruct buttons.
Those little red ones in films, you know.
Ticking time bombs waiting for the clock to count down.
One day he sobs into the nape of my neck
And begs for me to hold him forever.
The next he sits an inch further away than usual,
Slips into the old routine
Of breaking my heart with too few words.
Silly old girl, pouring my heart into a broken cup.
Pieces of me slip through the cracks.
I’m left to gather myself alone.
You’d think that I would have learned
Not to fall so hard for those little red buttons.
I haven’t yet.

I hope my name tastes like ash and burnt coffee in your mouth
Whenever the opportunity arises that you must speak it.
I hope my memory singes the photographs of us in your mind.
I hope you threw my letters into a bonfire in a fit of rage,
Then extinguished it with your salty, bitter tears.
I hope the sound of my voice rushes through your dreams like a wildfire,
Wakes you up in a cold sweat, gasping
For my gentle fingertips against your cheeks.
I hope the arsonist living quietly inside you
Sets fire to your veins and arteries and capillaries
Whenever you see me pass on the street.
I hope we burn for eternity,
An endless flame destined for immortality.

I wear my loneliness on the ring finger of my right hand, upside down.
A beautiful reminder of
Empty coffeehouse booths and
Cold bedsheets, imprinted only by one.

Someone asked me what his name was,
Noticed my confused glare,
And nodded quietly towards my hand.
I had slipped it on without looking that morning,
Right side up,
Wearing a fake lover upon my finger.
I stammered as I turned it around again,
Reassuring them of my loveless heart.

Any stranger, near or far,
Can see my loneliness.
The brilliant emerald embedded only proves
To be a distraction.