I learned
to plant the seeds
of happiness.
There are flowers
blooming
where the scars
used to be.

R.M.

oil paint
your poetry
onto the caravan
of my lungs-
so that tonight, may I still see;
all the colors
of your thoughts.

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck

Little hands
Soft and velveteen
Shiny eyelids
Tired and drooping
Long lashes
Looking down at the ground
A small mask
To fit his round face
With a childish print
Of his favorite hero
Shy and quiet
With delicate limbs
Putting on his large backpack
Almost home
Invulnerable
To the screams of the others
As lightning strikes
Beyond the fields of corn
Body jostled
As the bus bumps along
Dull jade eyes
Peering through the window
Staring at the rain
Behind the glass

he said our story was over
and that it had to end
i said i wanted us to have a sequel
he said we already did
i keep reading it over again
tears smearing the ink
as i feel his presence fade
my heart begins to shrink
i started out running out of black
so i decided to use red
no more fluid midnight
i used my blood instead
my pen is sharp
right at the tip
liquid ruby
pooling at my wrists
looping letter
fancy scrawl
sobs escaping my throat
as salty tears fall
i wrote in cursive
i wrote it every day
but even the brilliant crimson
couldn't make him stay

Love is not blind,
but he who did not see your worth.

i want to know the ending
without it having to end

but i cannot write our story
forever

(my knuckles are wearing away my skin
trying to write the book of us
all alone)