The cradle
his home
made from coat hangers
stray hairs from pink plastic brushes
and twigs and sticks
pressed up against his mother
sharing her warmth

One day though
he wakes up
mother gone
and no home left
down on the ground
instead of up in the trees

Little bird is so cold
and all alone

Stickers pressed hard
on to the ceiling
held tight against the paint
with an unwavering
child's belief
that the stars and planets
would watch over him
while he slept
and the moon was his
first friend

The number of days
means nothing
when one has only been
surviving
for years

Afraid of the dark
yet I live in
shades of gray

I used to be able to
count to a thousand
and walk backwards
with my eyes closed
and these were
to my little kid self
great feats of skill
but then
later in life
I resigned myself to the fact that
I would never feel close
to how alive those
small things had made me feel
but then
there was her
and when she left deep purple
hickeys up the length of my arm
nine in total
one for every letter of
her name
they were only on the surface
of my skin
but I felt alive
all the way down
to my bones

I have never really
written letters
just poems
but if the letters
I were to write
would make you feel
beautiful
then I would write
you letters
everyday

I am not a liar
I'm just a writer
but my imagination
my mind
is a rabid and
hungry beast
it eats everything
devours it whole
but it only spits one
thing out
and that is a lie
the lie is
"I am fine"