my depression is made of stitches

—of little tears in the patchwork
where the birds nibble away
at the seeds in my heart,
at the emptiness too ****
—what can love here impart?

oh sweetheart, love,
it is not that you are lacking—
your care is not slacking,
my heart is not cracking,
please don’t go packing—

but your love slips through my holes.

melancholy of a thousand birds
i trace my skin with bitter words—
a shot of black espresso
the darkest burnt shade
of a ****** gone
cold.

oh quick, please pluck
my feathers, i
am dying, dining,
feasting on my
warm remains,
crying.

I read a story I shouldn't have read.
It appeared before me, and my eyes,
suddenly, drew to the inkwell of his
tragedy with its one line eight words.

"I was four when my father hit me."
Like this I waited for him to appear;
I stood at my post, keeping
my gaze from the following prose,

that next stanza of fear—
that biography told in confidence
to one not meant to know,
who sits here now, silent

as a grave.

I asked if he was okay.

is it wrong to feel sadness
for the only sadness you've
known? misery isn't a

*******

competition.

Death
the final vacation,
destination unknown.
I just hope its all inclusive,
I left my wallet
in my other suit.

syllables tracing periphery,
lips cascading, chasing
the lyrics of one’s soundless
voice gone hoarse with
the melody of a name;
might i perchance remember
the flight of your lashes’
flutter against skin and
flush, hearing my echoes
reverberate along your frame?