the wolves are at my door.

what i mean by this
is that soon i will be torn open.
guts spilling out of body
blood pooling and drowning.  

its 4:15;
the wolves are here, pushing inside.
and the moths are in my stomach.
anxiety welcomed them in,
and i can not get them to leave.

i’ll wait impatiently for a text
or a call
that will deliver sadness
on a platter and expect me to eat.

death; he will deliver the aching himself
but first he will call.
tell me to wait by the door,
so that he can tell me that he has you.

and to remind me that i never will
again.

i’ll wait for the details of the crash
or results from a test i didn't know was happening.
i’ll wait for the ‘it was so sudden,’
because ‘it wasn’t meant to happen this way.’

those moths in my stomach are telling me
that death is about to start knocking.

that he will bring the wolves
because they are about to tear me                                a  p   a    r     t.

i spend a lot of money on flowers.

give me a minute to explain myself here:

every saturday morning i wake up early.
hours before work.
and most times, minutes before the sun rises.  
i’ll shower,
put a very small amount of effort into my appearance,
(because it is morning).
(because who really cares anyway).
and i’ll drive myself to the markets
that wait approximately four songs away from my house.

i won't be there for long.
(i am never there for long).

i’ll pick up some treats
for my dog (who was not thrilled with the early morning wake up)
as an apology for the interruption to her sleep.
and then i’ll carry myself to the buckets of flowers.

i’ll stand there and decide, for a few delicate moments.

i’ll ask him for ranunculus.
i’ll tell him that
i like the way they open,
and how delicate they are,
and how a single touch can have them falling apart.

he’ll agree
tell me that ‘softness is beautiful’
(this petal he gives for free)
and i’ll store that in my pocket until i need it.

i’ll think about how
i can not control much.
but i can control the flowers my vases hold.

so what i am trying to say is
i’d spend any amount of money to be able to hold something.
to be able to say,
“i chose this.”
instead of letting something be chosen for me.

i wish i could take the art off the walls,
and the moon from the sky,
and brew it like tea.

add boiling water and simmer the world down
so it is just sweetness.

i wish i could take a sip of it,
early in the morning,
before the chaos begins to rise with the sun.

a sip at lunch
a reminder of the world's beauty.

and a sip at dinner, just before bed
to wash away the day.

(it would taste like freedom)
(it would taste like peace)

i'll never escape it.

the redness of his blood
the eyes that stare back at me in the mirror.

i still bleed the same as him,
still write with his pen,
i am still his daughter,

despite trying so hard not to be.

he talks of the weather
and i secretly hope that he speaks of anything else.

not because i am not interested
in the way the trees will sway
on a certain day,
or the amount of rain that
will come our way.

but because i am much more interested
in who he is.

i want to know why the weather fascinates him,
how the world makes him feel,
i want to know his favourite movie or book
(please let him be a reader)
and the way he takes his coffee in the morning,
and i want to hear about who inspires him the most.

i want to memorise all the smaller
more vulnerable things.
in hopes that one day we will run out of things to talk about,
and then we might turn and say,
“the weather is meant to be nice today.”

bells echoing into the mist.
i must dig and dig and dig.
a life trapped in a small wooden box,
will soon and surely, forever be lost.

the bells ring, someone breathing alive again
grave diggers throwing soil
right over old and sore shoulders.
down and down and down they must go.

the bells ring again,
alive in my head,
memories buried, now suffocating,
i must unpack, all of the rot.

i pull the string,
and here the dull and quiet ring,
quick breathes, light descends
and I let death take me again.

you were a flower still blooming
plucked from the garden

stolen from soil

long before your time,
long before full bloom.

what a devastating way to end a life,
ripping roots
while it was still searching for light.