Cherry tomatoes
ripened and red
sprouting from
a store-bought ***;
sweetened soil
with water and sun
and leaves as green
as the growing grass.

Routine enacts certainty
when maintained concrete.

I forgot
to keep with it;
the scarlet skin
wilted dull and brown
and the leaves wrinkled
under a midwestern freeze,
a jar of life
left to die.

Two cherry tomatoes
survived the exodus
and remain alive
in the wasteland of death;
striving against the odds
to pull each nutrient
sickling through the soil,
sinking beneath the surface.

The most difficult lives,
the ones worth living.

My only wish
is to see Mom and Dad
sharing a smile
alongside the pride
they exude for me.

I wish to be seen
by those unknown
just as my girl
looks upon me
each morning:
homegrown and unbent,
unrelenting in my valor,
no dissent in my mourning.

Strands of gold
conceal bright eyes
hidden beneath
irises of caramel glaze;
sugar-coated fur
softens a day's blow
and reminds me
of a life worth living,
even if it is not
my own.

You were named Sagan
after the stars in the sky,
constellations so bright
brimming in our peripherals;
out of all the tribulations
tossed onto my chest,
you are the one
worth all four years
we forcibly endured.

They say
a dog mimics
their owner;
unfortunately,
this remains true.

The click of the dishwasher
reminds you of our shouts;
the heat from the stove
alludes to our physicality;
the vroom of the vacuum
reminiscent of 3 am cleaning,
a naive attempt
to mitigate the complexities
of his notable absence
night after night,
abandonment,
disregard.

I hoisted you over my shoulder,
carried you across campus
in the dead of the night,
solely to search
for his guilty eyes
peering from the shadows,
reflecting the prediction we'd made.

He has no idea
what he truly did
to you and me.

I am so sorry
you were borne
into an atmosphere
so dysfunctional,
so debilitating.

Showered with love,
yes you were,
but our words
rushed over you
as a stream of water,
bubbling through jagged stones,
reshaping your edges
into a rounded surface,
the smooth malleability
a cruel juxtaposition
of your selfless love
and your innate reciprocity
to positive affirmations
from those you adore.

We've made it out;
we've survived it all.

I do not listen
to the muddled hypocrisy
jumbling from a preacher's mouth;
yet, each night, I thank God
for giving me you,
so true, so blue,
so innocent, so perfect.

You were what I needed
to make it out alive,
and you are what I need
to maintain my breath;
you are the reason
I remain on this earth
to this day.

Thank you, Sagan,
for all you've done,
for all you continue to do
for this broken boy
undeserving
of your selfless,
unsolicited,
venerated
devotion.

Puddles of violet
stain my eyes,

each thought
deepens the hue,

a tattoo of exhaustion
eternally stained.

You could absolutely
accept the award
for the worst four years
anyone could endure;
anguished blame
to only entertain
the morose lament
of a brain so scarred
beyond any change.

Opal chains
locked to the bed,
a gentle quarrel
with the cracks in
the floor, a valor
of necessity wasting
the years away,
down the
drain the
rainwater
flowed,
spirals
upon
spirals
until no
more

I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you.

But I am too afraid
to disclose this
to a face only seen
through a screen;
too many times
in my crime podcast
has a gracious disclaimer
turned oscillating lungs
into a nameless victim.

No,
I do not wish
to become
just another episode.

So for now,
sure,
I like you,
I guess I’m just
“bad at responding.”

A dotted line depicts the distance
of all those who wish to see me near,
a desolate route devoid of any guidance
as each traveler strays from my directions.
I wish to move on from this solitude,
to extend my limbs as a branch of an oak,
reaching above to embrace the cool breeze
that dances across my skin turned numb,
bitten by the cold, awaiting its thaw.

Emotional introductions evocative of relent,
a painstaking desire to resent each progression
made on this journey of winding freeways,
the verdant foothills whispering me close,
an invitation inside for the darkness to engulf
the drastic resolutions that continue to evade.

The presence of life is only noticed
by the degraded footprints
etched into the unlit roadside,
indicative of the person left behind,
the grieving of a heart long forgotten now changed,
a two-way mirror cracked on the surface
predicting the obscurities of tomorrow's fate.

I continue to find myself stranded here
at the intersection of solace and intimacy,
a blind regression into the forceful indoctrination
that once convinced me of the intrinsic deformities
littered across my broken bones, my branded skin
forever possessing your infernal signature,
unrelinquishing my credence from your grasp
and forcing me into a haunted revolution
of all the words you'd made me believe.

I wish to move on from this solitude,
to extend my limbs as a branch of an oak,
reaching above to embrace the cool breeze
that dances across my skin turned numb,
bitten by the cold, awaiting its thaw;
intimacy continues to evade my grip,
slipping through my quivering fingers
as water flows from a rusted chalice
onto the bloodstained carpet below,
a discrete illustration of all the love
that continues to be ripped from my life
at the hands of you,
you who never truly left me,
YOU who deprive me of the intimacy
I once prided myself on,
the trust I was able to give
freely,
surely,
intimately.