They don't want to see you. They don't want to talk to you;
They want to gaze into a mirror and have a conversation.
They can't engage in any thoughtful conversations, they bury
any trace of originality under the exterior image they 'prepared earlier.' Their opinions are ideas formed like dough that was pressed into a cookie-cutter then cooked – hardened to ensure
they remain the same.

The shrubs are overgrown and evident of the
time we spend neglecting them and ourselves.
They breathe the threats we hiss
as we kiss
the love away we'd bought.
They witness regret and seldom connect
our paths lightly.
They see the bright stars shift
as we strive to sift
the memories remembered no more.
They grow as if fed by our lack of control;
They reflect disinterest for souls
sold long ago.

Some nights mum comes banging on my locked door -
she won't let me miss the sunset;
and it's beautiful
as we sit outside in our matching dressing gowns -
gazes totally fixed.
People say that God isn't real, but who painted this?
Where are Evolution's arms?
What incredible imagination could Mother Nature have?
No: this kind of beauty stands alone,
unparalleled and more than enough to
capture attention for hours as
it gracefully descends.

(C) 27/11/15
Courtney L

The broken pieces of her heart are scattered on white tiles,
sharp like glass, bathed in blood,
little pieces of herself she can't pick up;
can't cut her hands on because another slice into her skin
would **** her.

(C) 24/8/14
Courtney L

I love winter.
It's okay to be sickly white,
I now have an excuse.
I like the coffees, the hugs,
the chilly wind that lets
you know you're
alive.
I love evening runs when
the sun goes down
three hours earlier,
and I have
to race it home.
I love searching
for a heater in every classroom,
then staying for so long I
burn my feet.
I love hot roasts at dinnertime;
thick gravy soaking my insides.
I love movie nights and
fortress building;
the inventive activities
my friends must come up with
to do together because
the park, pool and plaza
are all off-limits.
I love the mornings when
the warmth from my bed is
so compelling
leaving would be
betrayal to a lover.
I love watching the legs
of a primate unfold
beneath me as my
razor collects dust
and I have no reason
to clean it.
I love putting on my
entire wardrobe and
counting the layers between
my body and the
ghostly hands of ice
that try to reach
my bare skin.
I love putting on a beanie and
shielding the world
from my
awfully bad hair day.
I love all my excuses for not
doing anything.

But for today,
my hurt heals with
silly words and
ink-covered pages.

For today I'm okay,
so write me a letter
signed 'your love'
and seal the envelope
with your lips;
a kiss
containing words
and spells;
binding my heart
so I'll write back
I love you too,
you can tell
it's true because
for today I'm okay,
I'm just missing you.

The clock ticks, steady - like a heartbeat that
he's not using.
Replaced by a silence that
steals his consciousness, for a moment,
then forever.
The weight doesn't lift, heavy - like a force that
keeps us all down.
Trapped in a sea of smiles and
memories that will always remain
in the past -
no future to mark new moments we
couldn't remember anyway:
We're not drowning in memories,
we're sinking in our sorrows,
oppressed by the knowing that he's not here
anymore.
If only we could turn the clock back:
revive a nerve and create
a few more heartbeats to share -
because we're forgetting
how to breathe, too.
Our fears replaced by tears and
thoughts subsiding our feelings because
we can't feel anything but the pain of his absence
that quickens that the mention
of his name.