i wish i could remember the
day everything popped, the
day the fissure ripped me in
two - broke me into pieces of
Feeling and
Unfeeling.

or maybe it was just like
poison in the water, not
enough to destroy but enough
to sicken - to warp the
sensations, the perceptions -
hot, cold, hate, love.

how happy and empty
seem to be the ends of the
extreme with no in between.
how it can change in a moment,
how the turning of the planet
manages to yank the ground
right out from under me.

how quickly the fruit sours,
the heart hardens.
the gardens turn graveyard
and i am left once more
with the wreckage of all that i
once loved, burned to ash.

maybe i am the villain.
maybe i am the virus
infecting all that i touch.

the irony in loving
cold hearts is
one day becoming
the cold heart that is
loved

not dead, just
cold - the absence of
life. like the
ghosts of trees,
in winter,
blown bare of
leaves -
all that remains
the silhouette
of an existence.

I would gladly die a whisper
on the tip of your tongue.

the burned
hollowed out
husk

the emptiness and
the ache

hands full of bruises
full of blood

gardens don't grow
when you plant them
in ashes.

i have built a home in myself
after all these years
and what peace it is to know
that no one will burn down
what i call hime
ever again.


(and what a quiet pain it is
to still crave the home in you.)