I shredded my sorrow,
using its remains as compost for new things –
disaster, dawns, death,

canned my compunction
to collect dust on shelves of a bone-dry past –  
the dark making it easier not to visit,
(sometimes begging is a good thing)

froze my fear into ice cube trays
to spike my drinks in healthy doses –
I fear temporary things;
good intentions, newborns, and large bouquets of roses,

drew a hot bath of nostalgia
and soaked in what remained of you,
letting it warm me before draining away,

stuffed my joy into a handbag
to give out in bits to those who walk too heavy,
speak too softly through prisms of pain,

and when the disappointments I had left shackled,
gnawed through their bindings
to trail me like a heavy perfume,
I sat down with them and my doubt,
rolled every bit of clarity I could find into a joint,
and got them high enough
to float from my window,
into the night, to wane with the moon.