Waiting around for your response,
Candlelight flickers in a hanging sconce.
A letter or message, what will it be?
A simple "hey" from you to me.

Which mode will you elect?
A tidal wave, or just a text?
Drown me in your heavy words,
Or toss me gently to the curb.

Leave no words left unsaid,
Don’t bash it into my head.
I've ached and wondered for so long,
Waiting for your little song.

My ear pressed up against the door,
Wishing, waiting, wanting more

I am not a bottle of shampoo.
Yet I keep watering myself down,
diluting everything that once made me
rich, whole, enough.

I stretch myself thin,
like plastic pulled too far,
translucent, fragile.
I work too much,
as if sacrificing my life could patch the leaks.

I am afraid to take up space.
Afraid that presence is too loud,
that my fullness might offend.
So I pour myself out in teaspoons,
measured, polite, disappearing.

If I keep watering myself down,
there will be nothing left
of the original product,
just a bottle,
and a label full of water.

Branded, but empty.

The hand that beat you becomes the one that wipes away the tears,
The back that turned away from you becomes the one to carry your weight,
The shadow that cast upon you becomes the shade in which you find solace.
Funny,
how pain learns to cradle you,
or how we learn to let it.

Kick your boots off, stay a while.
Hang your hat by the door.
Let the weight slip from your shoulders.

Wash the dust from your skin,
in the steam of my shower.
Rest your head on my chest,
I’ll tussle your hair, slow and easy.

No expectations here.
Just quiet.
Just breath.
Just us.

Little bird,
Your cage is not of my making.
Little bird,
I see the weight you carry, silent, unseen.
Little bird,
My hand is open, only if you wish to land.
Little bird,
I promise not to squeeze too tight.
Little bird,
I'd never clip your wings.
Little bird,
I’d never take your sky from you.
Little bird,
Let me build you shelter, not a cage.
Little bird,
I’ll walk beside you, not ahead.
Little bird,
I ask for nothing, only that you know,
Little bird,
You are free, even here with me.

I type and delete.
I write and erase.
I compose and destroy.
The poems I haven't written could fill books.

Too many mistakes,

Too many missteps,

Too many broken pieces
A thousand shattered moments,

Too many.
It won’t be your fault, mom and dad.

It won’t be your fault, lover.

It won’t be your fault, sisters, brothers, friends.

Don’t ask what you could have done,

Don’t blame yourselves for not noticing.

I’m the one who let it pour from my chest,
A sieve that cannot be undone.

Heavy, like a blanket that smothers the light,

A weight that will not lift.

But it’s mine to carry,

And yours to leave behind.