There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom.
It has been there for weeks.
Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind.
More than someone.
Someones.
No one has bothered its carcass.
Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping.
Someone would notice an infant sleeping.
An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom.
Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.

The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored.
Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out?
Am I light against the dark?
Or dark against the light?
Will I be remembered?
As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made.
Am I the dead beetle?
Will I be the dead beetle?
My life has not been bold.
One may only presume the same of the beetle.
There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out.
I merely exist.
No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away.
As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.

There is a saying that everyone dies twice.
First when you leave the mortal realm.
The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living.
What if you never live and are paid no mind.
Can you really die then?
What if I am not even the beetle?
What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society?
At least the beetle gets a poem.

I am not a sailor.
I desire to run.
Confine me not to a puddle dependent on the wind.
Direct me to the forest, the hills, and I will create my own draft,
as I speed across the ground,
flying over earth to distances greater than the confines of your wet berth.
No, I relish a solid state of matter beneath my feet.
I am a fire sign.
Warning: do not get wet.

My truth has stretch marks.
It expands and contracts to accommodate your fragile ego.

Expands.
Bandaging, covering the wounds you incurred, when something far more serious is needed for triage.
The words you need to hear.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.

Contracts.
Retreating within the depths of myself to compartmentalize and to please you.
An inner monologue of comfort.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.

What has become of the truth when it can be twisted and turned, expanded and contracted, stretched and warped?
Is it still viable?
Is it okay?
Is it fine?
I cannot be certain anymore.

Sorry is a word.
It has sounds and syllables.
It carries meaning,
although, sometimes it doesn't.

Is your sorry empty, full, half-empty, half-full?
Do you put the weight of truth behind it to lift it up?
When you make the sounds are you just making the sounds?
Are you simply enunciating the consonants to make them resonate
with the hard "E" at the end?

Is your sorry just a word?
Or is it a feeling?
A feeling that tears you up inside so that you must utter this word
to allow your hurt and pain to escape?
Your mouth, the portal by which the truth slides free,
by which you unburden:
is this aperture the escape route of your anguish?
Or are you just creating noise?

If you are sorry, REALLY, Really, really sorry,
show me that you can put together more than five letters.
I want to feel your word and the honesty built around it.
Show me that you embody each of these letters
with all of the cells of your being.
Sorry is just a word,
but when and if you choose to use it, make certain it is so much more.

They* say that silence is golden...whatever that means.
They say that "no news is good news."
They say that to really understand someone, you need to "walk in his shoes."

Give me a break; cut me some slack; take a chill pill.
Who are they? And what gives them the right?

The silence I'm in is black.
It is not golden.
It does not shine with light.
It is empty, earth shattering heartbreak.
That is my silence.

No news is not good news: this doesn't even make sense as a math or logic problem.
No news is never good news when you're dangling off of the edge of your emotional downfall-- holding on by your fingertips.
No news is not good news when you're struggling to keep your head above water, but your body is becoming heavy with doubt.

And my shoes? They don't even fit me properly half of the time.

So tell me, who are they?
Because I want to see their golden silence, understand how their lack of news is a positive... and I bet their shoes don't fit me either.

I lost ten pounds in three days
It's easier to leave the house without breakfast
It's easier to leave the house without worrying about future meals
It's easier to leave the house without those ten pounds
It's easier to leave the house without caring about your hair
It's easier to leave the house without caring about anything
Anything but you
Carrying the memory of you is the hardest thing I've ever done

Sleeping for what felt like an eternity
Was really only an hour
When the time I spent with you was a blink
In the forever of my life.

I wanted to write a book of us
But you left me only a page
For myself,
And for you, together

If I could stay unconscious forever
Our book would be endless
Chapters upon chapters
Of love without loss

Yet here I am
Gasping for breath, startled from my slumber
Your face in my dreams, a surge of adrenaline
Blank pages in my lap

I tell myself that I’m okay – I’m not
I tell myself that I don’t love you – I do
I pretend that you hate me – I know you don’t
I wish you didn’t love her anymore – you can’t stop
I wish you could tell me what I want to hear – you won’t

I am hopeful for today
I’m hopeful for tomorrow
There are some words I’ve still to say
They’ve become too hard to swallow

And yet I cannot spit them out
They won’t slide off my tongue
No matter how much hope I have
I’m scared they’ll make you run

If I let them through my teeth
I’m certain they will chase you
Away from me you’ll surely flee
My heartache will replace you

There are words I cannot say
I keep them safe inside
Although each day their meaning grows
I make sure that they hide

But if my hope should take control
The words may be released
I’ll cross my fingers that you’ll stay
Perhaps you will be pleased

I’ll hope that you will understand
I’ll hope you’ll say them back
The words that fly between our lips
Will formulate a pact

I know that you have words to say
They might not be the same as mine
But you can say these words to me
I know that I’ll be fine

‘Cause I am hopeful for today
We can release our words together
We won’t be scared or run away
And we’ll be hopeful for forever

You are the winter
When every time we meet, I – I gradually succumb
Slowly, so slowly, you overtake
All at once, I find myself deep within your grasp
The cold tendrils you exude probe and probe
Chilling and killing all traces of my summer
The blanket of you smothers
I cannot escape your season
So long this seems to last as I crack and bend under the weight of your blizzards
And yet, in the ruins of me, signs of spring

I cannot express with words – how sweet
it is to be had by you and you by me.