Image by Jamie Nash from Pixabay 

wildflower wrapped in organdy,
I step over my hopeless characters
and stomp my feet three times into the ground—
the drops of dew become mud under my shoes,
but, the smell of freshly cut grass lingers in the air.
so, maybe, not all my characters are hopeless—
some have dried, shrivelled hope—
a thing that dies in the palm of my hands—
like the ripest strawberries, I plucked from my grandfather's house and they still turned out sour.
I watched them die, every morning and every night.
I placed them atop the dining table and watched them die— the rot creeping up on them, the decay.
I don't know what it has to do with me and hope—
but, I couldn't eat strawberries ever after that,
they're always sour on my tongue.

my aunt sent me pictures of the first falling of snow over her porch. old times—
and I couldn't stop thinking of kissing your nose in the cold. it was momentary.
the weight of his silence weighs heavy upon my words and how little they mean—how they don't mean at all. twin fire signs,
this isn't the first time it's happening.
and the start of a nothing on a blameless December day, this isn't the first time this is fucking happening—
the disgusting, confusing lust and a hundred million doubts in my vision. now, his hatred resembles yours.

I'm sorry, but
these are the arms with bloodstains and remodelling scars— they were never meant to hold.

and if I could get one more chance to tell you the reasons why—I would. but, the knock on your door is always unanswered—
so I guess, that's also an answer.
messages overflowing your inbox—
I've never been as ashamed as before.
I guess, years and years later,
I still have too much to say.
and I think now it would make sense.

my fairytales are haunted by the reality
of an absence brought about by the distance
between my bones and my soul.
I can't feel anything.
I can't fucking feel a thing.
disassembled as a whole,
disentangling myself from another soul
when it takes on the central role.
but, as the year lives out it's last days,
I want to rest mine in a grave and sleep for some time.

so, I wrap my wildflowers in organdy and hold it in the palm of my hands. I hold it in and look.
look for just a while.
maybe, for a while longer still.
then, I crush it.
crush it in my palm of my hands.
and bleed. 

.    .    .