she sobs, deep gasps
the sorrow envelopes her
but she doesn't mind
she's upset beyond measure
but it will be over soon
           she bursts with life, mind ecstatic
she's overjoyed at everything
brightness follows her
she's glowing
but then she remembers
this is a cycle
          she sobs

the lightning won't **** you
the thunder will
boom  
eardrums squeeze!
pop pop pop
bust! can't hear
slip in the grass
dropped amongst bugs and wet smells
curl up into a ball and sob
you can't even hear yourself sob!
lungs burst like eardrums
you're a mess
the thunder will

letter to myself:
are you still what i want you to be?

sift through names like dirt for gold.
shift through gods like a true sinner.
there’s nothing left for us to believe in.

letter to myself:
are you everything i ever dreamed of?

thought process of a child in pain.
everything an attack.
no trust. no trust. all love and fear.

letter to myself:
are you dead yet? why not?

The smell of her hair
is not lavender or perfume.
It is chlorine summers
and cigarette smoke at a party,
a good party.
Her skin is not velvet.
It is fresh, white linen
that feels like home
the second it is smoothed over the mattress.
Her voice is not a whispering mother.
It is the ocean against the shore
seeping deep into the sand,
wishing it could stay longer.

The gravity of the moon
never gives up trying
to pull the ocean closer
to his surface,
and no matter how far you are
I promise to do the same
for you.

He tossed her a rose,
and she let it slip.
Like their love, it was fast,
and died too quick.