I found out you moved on,
you’re with another woman.

I felt nothing.

I thought I would cry,
tear my hair out over you—
but I think I love myself now.

My weekly therapy sessions worked.

it was dark and tender
my dad next to me
I was five
so free
at the driveway
we be

at some point
of the night
we looked upon the sky

I don't know why

we looked at the north
I saw a star so bright
with the colour of light

I looked him in the eyes
and said
“that's…grandpa”
flying so high

he said “no”

that's the northern star
it will always be
the brightest of them all
it's there when you seek
a guide to peek

when you've traveled so far
where no one can fish
when you wonder
‘Is this… ?’
or
‘What if…?’’
remember the star
that's it

Oh, good Lord.
Were you borne of love or was woven to a word?
I believe that a choir only have sung hymns — in your name, re-enacting kindness through loud utters of loving cruelty.

Because if love was found in the womb of a human heart, I wouldn't see a false God in my mother's womb.

However,
It is not you who sing the utters.
It is not them who are caged in a web made of purposeful mistranslation.
So, I hold no malice for you.

For you have not a mouth, yet — they feed you the receipt of words.

Nauseatingly comforting,
making me wonder,
if I’m addicted
to this suffering.

isolation has its familiarity,
as happiness is a drug
yet not as addicting as
misery.

My dearest Angelina —

Your lips were as red
as the mistletoe that hung above us
on christmas eve;
Now your stomach was covered
with the color that I loved,
And your head hung low
when my blade pierced you
as it rained.

She dances before the echo

Swaying to the ways
of calcification

From the reverberation
pounding on the
Shalerock's walls
solid dreams are fossilized
flickering within sparks of quartzite expectations