Two years ago the shower was a refuge.
A place away from my thoughts.
It was relaxing.

But it's become a hell.
The scalding water burns out my cries
And the blades sit neatly on the edge.

Crying in the shower is easy.
Probably because I can't feel exactly how much of my heart is breaking.

I can't feel how much salted sadness is falling from my eyes.
But I feel it in my heart.

I feel heavy.
My knees go weak and I must scramble to the floor.

There I curl up into my scarred body and make marks with razors where your hands used to be.

What the hell have you done?

When its winter the cold is not appreciated.

But when the sun beats down and rubs us in sticky sweat,we miss that little cold and that coat of white

Five bars boxed conceal my fate,
opulent stiff trees sit outside an iron grate.
I can't leave this prison for I'm the secret's committee--
my captors want the source of my surreptitious serendipity.

In the surreal landscape stood a man
laying in the vertical catamaran;
he's not a man queer and unknown,
but a queer man with the same face as my own.

I stare as I stare, and a smile breaks
like a mirrored leaf fallen, ripples a still lake.
The forest becomes him, for blurred vision ensues.
Teared freedom he uses, for to blink I refuse

My oppressors' gaze won't break away.
Believing I pine to nap under the trees' shade
Yet I'm as liberated as I am confined,
so my life alone I will never mind

I've done, will do, and am doing everything I want,
so when I close my eyes the wind is my confidant.
Speaking to me I follow its every elision--
the eurythmic breeze unleashes my inhibitions.

Leading me to the dark corner of my cell
with beauty all around me I stay in this hell
As night falls the bars rise in turn,
for the clear, star-streaked sky I yearn.

On queue the creek of a door latch is heard
I must choose but my decision won't be deterred:
the door leads to my guardians' labyrinthine maze,
the window-- a drop to the darkness, who preys.

So what do I do? Flip a coin with no sides.
With the decision face up in the moon's candlelight.
Frozen by fear of the known and untold.
Convinced I'm not ready, my merits must mold.

Red, blue, and orange somehow peak,
sun blasted clouds in front
a picturesque scene no words can depict,
or the shot when it's seen.

If such beauty lies in the inanimate,
then am I to believe I too exist?
When the ringing in my chest
and esophagus
echoes with the most hollow pitch?

Blinding light bears a hole,
killing the product
with the source of it all.
I am filled with the sorrow
of watching a loved one fall.