You went to that place
                         Where her flowers used to grow
Spilling hot, salty tears countless times
                    Left the air always smelling like the sea
Even years later
                       You can still hear her mermaid laughter
                   Echoing through the trees
Grown over with weeds now
                                      Sweet memories resting place
Much like the aching hollows of your heart
                   Anger rushes through the quiet solitude
           Urging your knees to buckle
Digging your hands into rich, wet earth
Sobbing great hiccuping gulps through mournful wails
                        True pain is that of loss
A circle is finally cleared
       Exhaustion floods the moment
Head heavily laid where she rests
                   Clouds hum by above the canopy
Digging into your pocket
Smiling softly now
            Grasping at incubating bleeding heart seeds
A hole here, a hole there
                                   She'll grow again

*For the dead never truly leave us

Today I am consumed by perpetual guilt, largely dominated by the fact I am a hopeless romantic who does not conform to general 21st century ideals of what a good looking woman entails.

Much to my misfortune, I do not have curves in places which would appeal to anybody's tastes. Every day I become increasingly grateful for clothes which hang in such a way which forgive and mask my treacherous, pale carcass. I do not belong to a culture which allows me to obscure my face into hiding, so I am forced to cause suffering to whoever witnesses my bruise framed eyes and morbidly shaped nose at a time when I do not care to improve it.

Night time is filled with intrusive thoughts, and the biggest fear of all; who will lie in bed with me and endure my scar littered skin, my insulting body, and myself, starved and drained of self-worth?
One thing is certain: If I was anyone other than myself, I sure wouldn't.

I have some books
and their pages stay crisp
and they remain clean
kept in a state
of perfection

I have
no holes
in those sweaters
that stay on the shelf
(those that always
reminded me of you)

what I love
I destroy
(it wasn't meant
to happen with people too)