at night
pitch black
king size sheets
her cold, clean white skin
and long apricot hair
lay sprawled against
his hot, smooth dirt skin
and military hair.
she runs her hand
up and down his arm
reflecting on their perfect day.
he hums that tune,
a hand running through her hair
and the other down her back,
she closes her eyes and hugs him tight
as she listens to his heart beat.
du-du-du-du-du-dudududududududu
it will never be in sync with her
thump....thump....thump...
she says
"your heart always beats so fast, even when you sleep,"
"it means I'll die early"
"don't say that"
"just the facts"
she holds him
listening to the doomful du-du-du-du-du-du-du
the heart that's revving up
to burst from his chest-
he wraps his arms around her tight
and falls asleep
she wonders if
he fears death
if he wishes things had been different
she wonders about his younger years
she wonders what goes on in his head
she wonders about all the things he does and says
and wonders
perhaps
if he has given up.

The grass is greener on the other side
the sky is blue
the air is clean
and the sun is shining always
and that's how it is over here
as long as the pictures I post make it seem so,
as long as my statuses are vague and humorous,
as long as I reveal the good and not the bad
no one will know
how hard things really are.

she wakes early to plot the day
makes the bed where he once laid
she works out to stay trim
curls her hair so she's proper and prim
she cleans the living room
the kitchen
the bedroom
the bath
the halls
the windows
the tables
the floor
she washes and folds the laundry
and puts away the dishes with a clatter
overwhelmed with quandary
pretending the latter doesn't matter
only focused on having dinner ready
when he steps through the door steady
and she does it all
yes she does it all
with a frown on her mouth
and a furrow on her brow
yes she's going mad as a hatter
perfect makeup
mixing batter
what's for dinner
new lingerie
makes her look thinner
she's got to please the man
she's got to lick his hand
petrified things will fall apart
if she doesn't play her part
she's losing who she is
afraid to be a Ms.
all day long
she thinks of pleasing him
humming a caged bird's song
for she does this all desperately
desperately desperately
running from the candle *****
her love just doesn't seem enough
doing all she can
to keep this man
pretending she still has an identity
and that she's not just a mechanical thing
that she's more than just
the desperate housewife.

so tell me
what do you think about love?
should it be something you struggle for work hard for
spend hours stressing and sweating
over how to make it work
letting it consume you
with fear
and anxiety,

or should it be effortless?
should it be comfort
and easy
should it excite you to the bone
and fill you with carefree procrastination
and a long
drawn out
well deserved sigh?

her heart beats strongly for him
                 she wants to love him
                         she truly does
                                 she just has to figure out
                                                                              *how

she's been staring at blank pages
tapping her pencil against the desk
shaking her foot
she's been staring at blank pages
lost for inspiration.

she's started to cry
late at night
sometimes in the day
she's got a weight on her chest
she overwhelmed with emotions.

She's been filling up those blank pages
pencil swishing back and forth
paintings
drawings
poems
stories
each tear drop
a new chapter
every sniffle
a stroke of the brush

overjoyed to produce lovely work
dying from the pain
loathing the necessity
that artists
need to be miserable
in some way
or another
to be great