The fall wasn’t pretty in the eyes of falling leaves.
The moon, undressed, unprepared. The night awaits.
You paint me red.
It’s okay.
Who cares if Canvas likes the brush anyway?
The door of trust was open for years.
In the ashes of my home, I will sleep.
The rain falls on open wounds,
So vicious, so cruelly undefendable.
And
The devil you know became alone,
So much
She wears a cross to burn her chest.
The weight of winter on spring.
I need to know,
How do flowers bloom in dry, hopeless, cold woods?
The writer lost herself in the obsession of pain,
Wrapped around the words she could not tell.
One, twelve, seventeen, twenty-one.
Another night, the next spring, she tries,
She tries to stay.