The stars care not
For your fears
Not for your happiness
And not for your tears
For they are above you
They don't feel as you do
And they shine far brighter
Than your eyes

The stars care not
If you shout or scream
Or cry at the top of your lungs
For the stars are simply
The sort of stuff
The would peel away the fabric
That made up your body
As if it were a tiger
With its claws
In silk curtains

The stars care little
Of your problems and less
Of your stress
And if it were possible
To be more apathetic
I’m sure the stars
Would achieve that as well
For stars are far greater
Than you’ll ever be
(Or so they tell me
In science class
Where I learn the volume of a star
Would easily consume
Our planet)

The stars care not
For you or me
For the stars are intangible
Too far to reach, yet
Too close to seem
Otherwise.

The sun, in comparison
Is warm and caring
The sort of love that can burn
If exposed too long
But only hurtful
When it’s been gone
And only then
Do you feel the burn.
Until then,
You lay and send
Your love to the sun
Who is closer than stars
And less cold, as well

Their light blinds
Like the morning sun
For each star
Is a sun
To someone.

blah blah
                       blah
                                      poetry

To throw away:

The hammer pants I wore
the day we met in person,
faded pattern and hole in knee
you said you would patch
for the memory

10 greeting cards signed by me
for Valentine's, birthday, anniversary.
21 post-it notes with "I ❤️ U"
once hidden around our bedroom
reminders from me, to you.

3 Greeting cards, scribbled by you
2 Given late, 1 on time
asking for *** on Valentine's

The set of knives and cutting block
to you for Christmas, rusted through
you soaked but never washed.
The owl mug, your first gift to me
that fell from my desk, handle broken
tossed instead of lost.

The practice leggings, now too loose,
stretched, and not your size
you "borrowed" and continued to wear
ignoring they were mine.

To wash, febreeze, rest and reset:

The jacket I bought for me,
that became yours when you arrived,
sans winter clothes,
donated, now. Surprise!

The mattress we bought together,
After I cried and begged for hours,
The box spring my then-bestie donated
to me, but you claimed was "ours"

The soft, memorable fabric, on which
I wanted no one else to sit,
my Poppy's Lay-Z-boy,
about which you threw a fit.

The car I gained when I kicked you out,
that I keep cleaner than you would.
My space, my heart, my dignity,
my house and personhood.

I message the girl I love
     "I miss writing poetry"
I miss the way syllables
     and sounds orient themselves
A line dance I haven't done
    in years, but know the steps
A sleeper agent to the way
    that used to be the only way
Back when my feelings were opaque
    and dusty, indiscernible
Before I knew what anger was
    without heat and fear
    and raised voices
Before I knew safety as something
    permanent, more tangible
    than ghosts
Once, poetry was my first language
    prose second, RP third,
A way to communicate without speech
    without uhms and uhs
Before I learned to ******* my way
    through public speaking
Poetry
    A line and feeling, a dance
    Syllabic sign language
I message the woman I love
    "I miss writing poetry"
Pick up a pen
    and write.