the night
your mom walked out the door
in her paisley dress,
she brushed you off her shoulders so easily,
it made you wonder how long she had been practising.

you still think about how
you weren't the only thing that fell off
the peaks of her bony shoulders;
birthday cards, goodnight kisses, home-made banana bread,
these things lay dead on the staircase she walked down too.

so you try to be kinder;
wait for me to finish my sentences;
make me pasta dinners when I come home;
all messy hair and tired eyes,
so exhausted from trying to love myself.

but I want you to know
that you don't have to love me too hard;
don't have to shove love into my crevices,
to make up for the love your mama never gave you.

so be kind to yourself;
try to get out of bed at a decent time,
make yourself some hot cereal for breakfast.

stop waiting for me to come home;
for my voice to echo through the hall and fill up
the empty spaces in your heart;
the ones you always trip over.

put on a new shirt,
go outside,
and sit by the park bench;
you can always go back
to writing poems,
like you used to.

stop waiting for me to come home;
stop waiting around for someone to love,
you can fill yourself up first;
and rip out the weeds that lace your lungs;

I'll be right beside you,
armed with metaphorical shears
and tangible kisses,
but you've got to promise me,
that you'll learn how to love yourself first.

i) Tell me what you think about when you can't go to sleep at night. When you're on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, heat reverberating off the skin on your body. Desperation hanging off your lips; her name rolling violently around the inside of your mouth like a storm, pausing every now and then to dangle treacherously off the edges of your tongue. Why are you still sleeping with her ghost darling? I wish you would stop missing her so much sometimes.

ii) These days, you get out of bed at 2 in the morning and head to the liquor store down the street with my red flannel wrapped around your waist. I don't know how long you're gone but you wake me with whiskey-tinged kisses and bloodshot eyes. I tell myself this is just a phase, that loving a sad person isn't that hard really, but when I'm in the shower scrubbing her name off my skin with warm water and soap, I can hear you calling out for her, in a drunken stupor, as you stretch your lanky arms out to my side of the bed. I tell myself things will get better.

iii) We visit her grave on Wednesday. I make you tomato sandwiches for the ride and pick dandelions off the sidewalk because I know they're her favourite; you've mentioned it at least ten times. When we get there, you're on your knees, head buried into the soft grass, I'm not sure if you're crying, I don't want to know. The dandelions now lie crushed within the creases of your palms, and I start to wonder if the sadness that's tucked behind the corners of your ears will ever dissipate.

iv) On the car ride home, you won't shut up. "she's dead, she's dead, she's dead," you keep muttering in short, frayed breaths. I don't know what else to do, so I put on some music, slide my hand into yours and feel your fingers tighten around mine. "I can feel her slipping away," you say, and I think about how that's not such a bad thing.

vi) You're tired when we finally reach the door, and your eyes are droopy; you almost can't walk. So I guide you to our room; one hand on the small of your back, the other wrapped around your waist. I tuck you into bed, and make sure your blanket covers the peaks of your toes.

vii)You've drifted off into nothingness, you're sleeping in soft and heavy breaths now. Her name escapes from the gap between your lips, and a sigh escapes from mine. I can't help but wonder if this is what loving a ghost feels like.

Whipped through the crowd in a
Senseless tornadoes wrath
Head bangs and throbs with painful passion
For the rush received
Blurred are the lines
Between faith in you and leaping off this boat
Maybe the wind will catch me
Maybe it won't
Maybe the wind will swallow me down into it's perilous belly
Yes
That sounds more pleasant

(hands in glass are like
a heart trying
to let go. bare skin and
sharp angles- even when
you put down the shards, pry
your fingers open your
hands will glitter and
sting like unshed tears with all
you grasped honestly, nakedly, all
that you can't leave behind)

my mother built this
child's gravestone with
(her child's gravestone with)
her own two hands. she lifts
the glass and places it in
the mold, bending, and shifts
her arms and twists
her hands to let go. This
is her penance, this
work is not swift she
plunges her hands in, looks
for pieces to fit while
the glass tumbles with
a tinkling 'chisk'
but her hands
are protected
by gloves.