I can tell
from the smile draped across
your cheekbones
and your boisterous thought
pinned like a malicious lapel
three odd words—
“bursting with life.”
Painting the corpse on display,
crammed inside a casket,
dressed in birthday suit.
Am I aching?
Am I in distress?
Do you need words
to tell you of these things?
While you hold a living funeral
for such feelings.
In between us,
a wall,
Before: you said you wanted connection, as you laid one brick after another.
Maybe if you went over you’d see
the emptiness you banished me to.
You,
cold as an ethereal summer,
sifting through gaps of a cracked heart
after being battered by promises offered.
Well excuse me,
if I can't get over the hurt
You do not have to be grateful.
You do not have to see beyond yourself.
You can continue, as you have,
to orbit your own sun.
No, I refuse you
patting tears I cannot cry.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, my heart, once offered
like an open palm full of seeds,
learns to close, to protect itself from
your drought and wildfire.
You are not the IRS,
neither an accountant,
nor a broker, but a breaker you are
love is not a transaction,
not a ledger to be balanced.
I should have flown with my flock
against the gale of your indifference,
but such curse is youth,
when naiveté is in abundance.
Perhaps the wilderness out there has something safer to offer,
something tamed,
and,
somewhere, the dogwood blossoms
like heaps of uncaring December, covering the ground
in a blanket of white petals.
I want to lie down there,
to press my ear to the earth
and listen to the roots growing,
to the slow, steady drumbeat
of my thumping heart or whatever
is left of it.
I don't need your approval to bloom
so watch me unfurl next season,
my leaves reaching for a kinder light,
my roots deepening into richer soil.
I wish my silence were words for you to read.
