They're in a better place,

They tell me.

They're happy there.

Were they not happy here?

Now I'M not happy here.

When will they come back?

They're in a better place,

They tell me.

Like a vacation.

We never got to go on a vacation.

How do you know they like vacations?

Maybe they're mad

Being stuck somewhere like

Florida, or something,

And away from us.

When will they come back?

They're in a better place,

They tell me.

That's not true.

I asked my teacher

Where people go

And she told me

Nobody knows for sure.

They're not on a vacation!

They're lost!

We have to find them!

They're in a better place,

They tell me.

I smile sadly

And give them a nod,

And a 'Thank you'.

A better place, huh...

That coffin doesn't look much better to me.

They're in a better place,

I tell myself,

Pushing back tears--

But without them,

This place

Is so much worse.

My hands are full

of pennies.

My heart is swinging

down around

my knees.

I am not proud

of how crazy I am.

Loving is dangerous.

I am holding a cobra.

Face to face.

Trying not to scream.

Hoping my

modest melodies

are enough charm.

One day I will

slither too.

I spit on color

and it brightens,

give pain its sweetness

and lift joy from depths

of flatness, pinning

legs to passion as it

flees monotony.

I make meaningful the void

and stitch devastation with

notion of possibility,

a shield against the world

while you reconstruct hope.

Yet I am despised as I

heap definition on

all that comforts.

one day, I will fade

into tales of regret and look

on from the forgotten shadows

of your heart. and I will smile.

and hate how long it took peace

to give up greed and find you.

farewell old friend. glad you made it.

my favorite scar

lies on my wrist,

it predates memory,

which suggests

I was born broken.

it's deeper than

the other ones

that exposed the

unnerving shade of bone,

the first reveals

my frailty,

perhaps neglect

or a shadow of things

to come.

so I love it for what

it isn't because it

was never mine.

weakness left by another.

you left these vile smudges running

aimlessly over my every curve.

once polished and brilliant and

elegant in a dreary doorway.

I now reflect streaks of

rotten rainbows as light glances off

the oily residue of your touch.

I'm sure germs are screwing vigorously

along the lines of marred shell. My shell.

you could have at least washed

before the fondle. at least looked

before twisting and using.

I let you in. you closed the door.