I am the queen of what ifs
Sitting on a throne of could've beens

My fears are my loyal subjects
Escorting my dreams to the gallows

My ambitions are now prisoners
To my court of procrastination

I, the queen
Reign over all of this regret

first it's the shock
you can't even believe it.
then comes the anger
oh god the burning you'll feel inside.
you hate him and hate him and curse him
for every single happy memory
he gave you.
then the despair comes
you're awake endless hours of the night,
and you hate yourself and hate yourself and curse yourself
for allowing yourself to fall in love
with his demonic smile
and unhallowed laugh.
you cry your eyes red
your sadness takes on a physical form.
you don't eat.
you don't sleep.
you feel no compelling reason to be
alive.
the longer it was, the longer this lasts
and every time you think you're getting better,
you spiral down the drain again and
suffocate in your own grief.
you cut your skin and
your veins are trying to accommodate
all the alcohol diffusing into your blood.
you scream at the top of your lungs
you believe you are going insane
and the only thought haunting you
for the rest of your days is
"why wasn't i good enough?"
(e.s 'november fifteenth')

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
      and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store.

I don't care like I used to; I lay bricks straighter than I
      used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons.

When the sun is in my eyes and the ladders are shaky and the
      mortar boards go wrong, I think of you.

A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.

A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.

A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the ****
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.

A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.

A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.