Beat me down,
break my spirit,
all I need is one reason to cry in the shower;
to give myself completely to a
thousand lovely drops.
When I lay on my back and
let the water pour down on me relentlessly,
I realize I'm not sinking;
                                           I'm still here.
When I bow my head and
watch the water create a curtain of my hair,
I realize I'm still visible;
                                           I'm still here.
When I arch towards the ceiling and
let the water beat on my raw red chest,
I realize there's still a heart inside;
                                           I'm still here.
Yet my toes are still chilled, aching,
remembering how far I've come and
reminding how far I have to go.
Each stream that runs hastily
down the curves of my barren body
defines more than a physical adoration,
but a renewal:
I am not his,
or hers
or theirs;
the only thing that binds me is my mind.
Wash off the feel of his touch or
the scent of her perfume,
let it fall away like every other lovely drop
and see the world's beauty through your eyes again.

My love is a building
The foundation beneath it was laid carelessly
Workers smoked and drank, they were unaware and sweetly intoxicated
My love is a building decaying in rain or snow
It cannot withstand such trouble
It is a strong yet fragile house
A lovely uncouth prison, a clumsy little girl's doll house
My love is a building
It is hidden and silent like folding a sheet of tissue paper
With every winter storm, it shivers in the wind
I am sorry to my love
For not taking care of you
The wallpaper withers, falls onto your creaking wood floors
As dust gathers in the basement
Laying particles of the atmosphere over old pictures and mementos
I still have your necklace
And I will hang myself with it around my neck
From the stairwell  
Because everything else in this house
Is falling apart anyways

She smiled like a fist fight,
Lips curled into an apology,
Sipping on that darkened bottle,
Wishing for the winter,
Fishing for the rain
and spitting away the sun,
Planting all the daffodils
with the sharpest of knives,
She is an island,
Lost at sea,
unaware of the times,
Smiling like a fist fight,
and a garden of knives

It was a cool morning in January
when I cracked my blinds
and peaked at the world I knew.
Bright breasted robin, perched in the azalea,
watched me dress and curse this life.
He did not sing, did not so much as move
as I dragged my feet and clutched my chest.
Bright breasted robin, soaring the skies,
always came back to make sure
each morning my lights turn back on.
He watched me tie myself to my bedpost,
hide away the razors, suffer through headaches
because I convinced myself I lost the aspirin…
It wasn't until a warm March morning
that I could open my blinds
and gaze upon the robin that sang me awake.
A nest, perhaps two feet from the glass,
perched on the limbs that clawed a child's dreams,
sat the bright breasted robin and three others:
A choir, A reminder, A hope.

"I hear you. I do. But of all the reasons you've expound of why we can't be together none are of the heart. I have to fight every instinct I have pulling me toward you. When I'm near you I am aware of every breath you take and when I am away even the wind in the trees reminds me of you."

Let.
Him.
Go.
I know you can!
Forget the tainted heart
Block the screaming head
Follow your gut.
You don't need him this time --
Or any time! --
To feel the warmth of happiness.
Let him go, you can do it.