Planting a tree for my future daughter
so she’ll have a patch of shade to read under,
to hide from the house
when the walls get too tall,
and advice from her mother
means nothing at all.
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You Sir,
think your eyes are so keen when they see My lumps and bumps as this burned up broken thing
Pinched between My fingers and the gaze of this world
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Each day at noon,
I visit you,
Knocked on your door,
Fixed by the bolt,
Peered through the foggy windows,
Blurred by thoughts.
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Arctic air on your first snow day.
You never knew how harsh the wind can be.
How it can crack your lips,
Freeze your eyelashes,
Bloody your fists,
And get our mum to wrap you up so tight
That you can barely breathe
Through thick Everest coating.
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My heart didn't break
When we decided you couldn't see it anymore
Or that night when both of us
Broke that promise
In a silent, red regret
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“Why?”
A question. A simple word.
Drawn out disbelief in the stale air, cradled by your absence.
One lingering syllable left on my tongue,
remaining denial, reaching out, grasping for you.
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Fickle humans with our love
Condemning nature from above
We sit beneath such beauteous trees
Yet they cannot begin to please
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If sleep is death being shy,
Then a single bed is a shallow grave,
Then pillow talk is your final breath,
Then goodnight is goodbye.
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Fickle, fragile, fumbling
I shuffle between my fingers
While you craft a masterpiece
Of paper tears and skin.
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Months after escaping, it hit her —
realising is the hardest part.
It was the spring everyone went indoors,
turned the keys in their locks, and shut the sun out.
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In this post-post-post world
Where feelings have been eradicated
Through senseless repetition
Therapeutic(ally) adding prefix and suffix
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