My soul is dry and barren
like two chapped lips cracked
in the dead of winter
Barely parting to release a haunted breath
that looks like death's whisper
Bleeding like two perfectly vertically slit
wrists
The kind of thing you cannot save
The kind of thing you have no intention of
taking back
The only tears that fall are from the sky
From God's eyes
Watching his perfect child wander
in such discontent
Without a ripcord to help her disconnect.