Sadness is a razor
Uncertanty marks my arms
Dissapointment carved my thighs
But the crimson is so beautiful
When all you want is to die

My arms cry for a breakup
My legs for being unwanted
New skin where the old used to be
Your body is now haunted

But the scars have a certain beauty
Be it from razor, needle, or knife
They show that you were strong enough
To not give up on life

It could've been
the sweet scent

that sank into sheets.
It could've been

the peel of the red
dress from shoulder

blades, like a layer
of skin.

It could've been
black shoes

left by the door
that shone

like piano keys.
Maybe it was  

the room draped
across your back,

how you pulled
it around us,

shrinking the world
into something

we could
understand.

No,
        it was just

the hollow sound
of the closing door

that made me wish
you never left.

A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.