“Respect pain. Every heartfelt word is first born from sadness.”

And when the cold comes, I swear I can feel her in my bones.

Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.

Maybe water is not entirely lost when soaked into sand. Maybe it finds a better resting place to call home; and I hope she did too.

All through the depression, I was the soft toy in the hands of a baby with sharp teeth.

After healing I’ll run back to her – of course this poem demands a brutal ending!

It is my dying wish to travel around the world; to feel this hurt in a slightly different way!

Sometimes even in pain we smile to the world until we think we’re dying.

The broken worlds we hide inside; that’s how we start to die!

Most days missing her is my only choice between death and dying.

Often times the language is different; by which I mean, I love her, and it’s the only stammer I’ve ever known.

I’ve seen it, I know it too; love still dances in the fire after the rescue.

I forget how our story started; but these days I’m finding the missing pieces behind every exhale, where I left the words standing with sore feet.

I can feel the dust of her skin in my skin; and I think maybe that means these bones of mine have grown weary of crying too.

This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.

Please the night’s cold, not her name again!

In the end not every bleeding thing dies; at least, not like a paper plays in fire.

I feel like I was supposed to be born in the ’90s. Everything from that era needs to come back.

I was born a leader, never a follower. I never felt peer pressure. If the group goes left, I go right.

Hour 36 of labor. I pull at god’s necktie dig a hole at the hospital floor.

If you born in the mud, you gonna be dirty, and people don’t understand that.

Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.

I’m not a natural born performer.

Perfect behaviour is born of complete indifference.

History is a pact between the dead, the living, and the yet unborn.