"What was it like to lose him?"

"It isn't one single feeling when it happens. It's an empty feeling, that follows you around forever and ever."

-bcg (it never leaves)

discard me, darling.
I'm water-damaged,
torn
and not worth much.

"I love you so much"
is scrawled in the dust of my TV.
Every time I roll over and see the
motivation, my lip curves-
I feel you in what was a tent, now a house,
constructed in me.

A full house to clean,
I can't even keep the dust off my TV.
Your lips press onto me
and I swear I can feel every
glass window shatter in rooms of my knees.

I'd pick up the glass with my bare hands
just so you
could see the daylight through the pieces
in the morning.

Sometimes I let the storms tear down my walls,
allow visitors to leave the stove on a little too long-
and I push myself to the weeping willow to vanish.
You notice the lights are off and I am thrown in the wagon,
pulled back home to safety.
I don't mean to be so selfish,
thinking that I matter out there when graced
under the vines of Mother nature.

You are my comfort zone,
my bed on a sick day,
and I love you more than any of these words.

I exist as a mirror
Wild lights have glazed over your skin
My whispers are tarnished
Our bodies a shield
Against the coming chills of a brittle wind

I linger with a breeze-like touch,
It comes out hoarse and swollen.
Thoughts  uttered with a breath of regret
Or a sigh of relief.

Your face turns foreign, a mesh of dark warmth
A light without the sun.
We’re all a wounded red
on the inside.

Mortar crust upon my skin
from building walls too thin

to provide myself a sanctuary
where I can deny those who care for me.

I cannot resist my need to hide
So I lurk and recoil inside;

I clumsily regress into a crawl
as my tears remember how to fall.

Never did I trust goldfish when I was typing away.
Those bulging eyes say spy and I will not have this
animal escape when I'm not looking and tell someone
in the wrong crowd about my secret writing projects.
This goldfish,
circling this crystal bowl,
he is mine,
a political prisoner.
Call Amnesty International if you want but
there's no existing manner to free him.
Except death.
Then he will be given a proper viking funeral
and his body burnt in the glistening sundown.
Secrets kept secret.

If there wasn't pain
There would be no poets
For we write about things
That hurt us, damage us, break us

Right?