I write this with little force,

Autocorrect guiding my words;

Inhalers keeping this curse at bay,

Blades making blood flow.

I think of now with little hope,

Without a saving grace;

I think of now, a pitch-black room

With no one there but my demons.

Flurry of words seem to gush out of me,

As I hyperventilate;

Grief grows larger as they don't notice,

As these fingers grow numb.

I don't know how much I'll last,

Might as well collapse,

No matter how much I say I'll die,

I'll just live some time again.

But now it's worse.

bang against
the glass and break,
sun against skin
porous thin,
window pane.
we begin the same
no name, no shackled
weight, no net we
seek to escape,
each word yet
unlearnt hangs
unheard
in some unknown
air, waiting to be
plucked fresh
from the vine
imbibed like wine,
into a part of
the heart that learns
the word 'pain'
too often to remain
the same.

Morning coffee
spills on the kitchen counter
grains of Christmas Blend
a gift
don’t remember who
was so thoughtful

Never scramble eggs
with a mixture of
eggnog
so sweet

Time for morning
medications
nothings to do
still so much to
remember

Morning pill
respond to e-mail
mid-morning pill
call your mother
forgot
no phones
in paradise

Perhaps
I should
make a list

Where did
I put
my
pencil

Those hands
Speak more than does the face.
They clasp or lace,
They grip or poke
Hold firm.

They open in enquiry
Or close to form a fist
Or furl and unfurl to try and give the gist
Of some internal land.

Those hands I love
Are square and brown
With rough and bitten nails.
The finger ends are blunt,
The skin is coarse
With work.
Those hands are always warm and strong
And mine in his makes me a child again.

I could go to bed with him
But my heart would still be aching
And I could try to write words about him
But my heart would still be aching
Instead of you, I could choose him
But my aching heart
Aches for you