*******, coward.
Worse than a ******* lion.

Sweet little promises—
let the dogs remind you
where your ***** is.

Write me an obituary
and come to my memorial,
so we can say goodbye,
to every piece of me,
that ever once,
was wonderful.

Kiss the cold cheeks,
of everything I used to be—
the ways I used to believe,
the things I used to see.

Then you can come,
and stand beside me,
as I cry these tears again,
for every dream inside of me,
that will never live again.

Birds sit on empty trees,
no more branches-
no more leaves-

Just stark stumps in the ground,
with little birds
perched
as little crowns.

It's easier to talk about
bacon-wrapped pineapple,
than all of the things
no one ever wants
to talk about.

Little girls who love
roaches—

who rescue them from
feet and brooms and paper towels—

who scoop them up
in small, cupped hands
to keep them safe,

who peek between their fingers
when I tell them to put it outside,

who hide them in their pockets,
whispering secrets
to skittering legs.

“I don’t have the roach,
Ms. Skyla,” they say,
holding out open hands,
little fingers spread wide.

I do not love roaches,
but I do love
little girls who love
roaches.