the dew of my tears feels wet on tight sleeves
the sweat from my brow jumps like water in springtime
and if I could use words to describe my heart – it would
only seal away my lips

my tears are like scattering flowers
blown away by the winds – my lungs are a leafless branch
veiled in such a dry cough; choking away at my pride

nights I’ve dreamt of suicide, to live on
and tell of it lies; it was an empty void that wouldn’t fill
the belly of some hungry wild dog – and if I could speak
a fruitful prophecy for my life, my lips would be the scent of plums.