I woke up one day and breathed in your cologne
even though only one side of the bed was warm
even though only one side of the bed left
the shadows of dreams and fingerprints of nightmares.

And later, when my bed is made and both sides are cold and pressed,
I heard your laugh when I pushed my
hair behind my ear, distant.
     close.
Soft, even though my windows are locked and frozen shut.
Evident, even though my breakfast
is a black cup of coffee
and humming to myself.

But I put my hair back in front of my ears and go to work.
Where I taste your words
with breaths in and out.
I turn them over, sweet, truthful,
unlike my black coffee that I use
to drown out, to block out,
     to
          close
               out
what is true on my tongue,
between my teeth and sitting on my lips,
ever whispering without sound.
And I can't stop breaking apart your
words in my mouth
so I can taste each
     syllable.
But they are dull, old tastes that I beg to stay fresh,
but you are not here.
     And I cannot
     swallow
     your
    perfect
    words.
They tease and tickle my throat.
     sweet.
But unreachable, no matter
how many times I try to unravel
the truths on my tongue.

By the end of the day, on my couch-I am tired from your laugh
between the strands of my hair,
but an unreachable shadow;
and I am tired from your words
that are sugary and ****
     and distant because I put them
in my mouth months ago.
And even though I want to close my eyes,
I do not.
Because your face on the pillow next to me
taunts me behind my eyelids
and your fingers on my belly
are just beyond reach when I lay down
and your breath in my ear
is too cold on my ear.

And if I let it ,your memory will
never let me live.

Sometimes the rain doesn't just roll off my skin.
Instead of water,
sheets of razors pour from the sky,
slicing my soul into something unrecognizable.

And it makes me feel more
than I have let myself in weeks.
Sharp and cold and harsh
juxtaposing itself from my warm naivety
and shut eyes.

So much damage to the inside
that my skin prickles from underneath
and I shutter at the downpour of metal.

And I beg it to stop,
beg it to let me sleep again,
and curse the sky for making me breathe through stripped lungs.

Nothing so violent has ever been so quiet.
Nothing so dark has ever felt so familiar.

She's a garden of gentle strength,
raised from rose gardens,
raised from fields.

She mutters soft words that move mountains
and hums songs that mold hearts.
She's a girl that cannot be held for too long,
who changes the world with a kiss,
with a stare.

How can she, peppered with scars,
followed by night, be so warm?
And perhaps her skin isn't soft for what would that do in war?
And her nails are clipped short
But she has never frozen, never ran cold in her hot veins.

A girl from wisdom, feet planted in the dirt:
dainty, soft; powerful, strong.

Tuck them in your spine or the space between your ribs,
perhaps behind your kneecaps but never on your lips.
Because they may wreck your soul and cloud your eyes,
but they won't hurt anyone else if they're kept inside.

I've been told that I am too broken to be loved,
too damaged,
too crooked and bent
for someone to cherish.

But perhaps it is on those very edges,
those very ragged edges,
that loves snags and is held.

So before you tell me that no one can find beauty in my chipped soul, look at your own perfect life and ask yourself if love has ever crept into the crevices and hinged itself on smooth skin.