People like to say that they don't care
but I know this isn't true
its just an excuse
to hide what others put them through.

The Problem isn't caring
its pretending not to
for we all are scared of sharing
the pains of what others can do

I should have wrote that down
before I went about my day
If I try and rewrite it now
never will it sound the same

I hope you choke on my heart
as you devour it before me
relish every part
knowing the pain it brings

I will smile as you do
while your gaze turns to disgust
I even gave fair warning
that my love was poisonous

A tulip is just a tulip
in her palm or mine.

It didn't make sense to a sky
that only cried in April.

Same moon,
different set if eyes.

Just promise me,
you're one of us.

A part of me lives miles and minutes and moments away
in an indefinite, dreamy place where clocks are not my enemy
and I associate the word “distance" with travel, not longing
My heart has sailed across the Atlantic,
moved eagerly through the Indian Ocean,
navigated using an atlas inked with butterflies
and stars that gleam ardently
(just as your rosemary eyes do,
every once in a blue moon,
when you’re able to sew together
the disarrayed thoughts
that dwell in your messy head)

You are so, so far away

However, if I avoid calendars and geography,
it feels like you’re right here beside me

In the afternoon, when the sun shines
through my bedroom window
and paints the world map on my wall with light,
I shut my eyelids and run my thumb along the string
that stretches across the parchment,
connecting me to you

I pretend that when I open my eyes,
you will be here
and that my aching fingers
that are so desperately
grasping the paper
will be intertwined
with yours

My mother tried to send herself to hell,
and in turn, my sister did the same.
Only, my sister succeeded,
at 11:03 am, there for the eyes
of her five year old child.

You see, I’ve never known poverty
or what it’s like to drive a used car
because we bathed in money
to drown out the sorrows,
and we tossed our spare change in garbage cans
to try and lose the devil.

What if Shakespeare’s not right,
and all the demons aren’t here?
What if my sister plunged herself into a hole
filled with all of her darkest fears?
I swear to God himself, I hope he’s right,
because I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,
I can’t even imagine.

They got dressed that morning
to go out and protest,
though whilst running
a bullet entered their back,
split their spine into shards and out spilled
blood as wine flowing from their oak made cask.

Now they lay and lie and cry silently
in a room where a man counts the corpses
and wraps them in linen,
hiding faces from families making them hidden.

Close their mouths with tissue bows
tied at the forehead for purchase and extra tread,
cover stomachs of starvation up
and say words that shouldn't be misread.

Photos of the deceased to send around the globe
from camera to probe, back down to internet villages and news room towns.

Outside the demonstration continues with howls
and flags made from sweet cotton thread
and the march continues being walked by
those with barbed wire legs.