Heartache.
It's worse than
the knives,
the broken bones,
the bullet holes.

The pain
drives you insane,
eating you alive,
consuming
your brain.

The aching shows
you're close
to breaking -
whithered away,
weak.

The idea of anyone else
causes you
to push everyone away,
until it is only
yourself.

The only thing worse
than a headache
is the ache
that started it -
the heartache.

I still remember
third grade.
When poetry was made
of rhymes...
Oh, the good times.

We were taught the sun
was a happy thing
and we would sit on a swing
smiling at its wonder,
unable to wait for summer.

And I know while
the sun's wonder
does indeed bring summer,
it also gives way to thunder
and rain.

Now that I'm older
poems have grown colder
and I know sorrows
are not conveyed
in rhymes.

There are no
protections,
no barriers
in our brains.

I would take
sticks and stones
over words
any day.

One minute
I believe I'm okay.

But then I
take a moment

and I think,
and the tears

come again.
So fast

they can't be
stopped.

He's a nice boy with
a pretty face - I never
had a fighting chance.

I thought
I knew you
so well -

like the
back
of my hand.
But every time

I look
at my hand,
there's a new

bruise,
a foreign
scratch,
a scar

I never had
before.
So the truth is,

I really
don't know
the back
of my hand

all that well.
So what does that say
for you?

I firmly believe
there's no
life after death,
so I can't
console myself
with the fantasy
that you're in
a better place.
But I hope,
for the first time
in my life,
that I'm wrong.
For your sake
and mine.