I shredded my sorrow, using its remains as compost for new things – disaster, dawns, death,
canned my compunction to collect dust on shelves of a bone-dry past – the dark making it easier not to visit, (sometimes begging is a good thing)
froze my fear into ice cube trays to spike my drinks in healthy doses – I fear temporary things; good intentions, newborns, and large bouquets of roses,
drew a hot bath of nostalgia and soaked in what remained of you, letting it warm me before draining away,
stuffed my joy into a handbag to give out in bits to those who walk too heavy, speak too softly through prisms of pain,
and when the disappointments I had left shackled, gnawed through their bindings to trail me like a heavy perfume, I sat down with them and my doubt, rolled every bit of clarity I could find into a joint, and got them high enough to float from my window, into the night, to wane with the moon.