Like November

You were dark
like a crisp November day
cold and beautiful and confident
touching me from the inside out
and oh how good it felt to have you in my head
to hear your voice call me baby
to hold your icy hands
knowing this could not last forever
but you were never meant to be permanent

Worth It

Sometimes caring can be dangerous

A treacherous minefield full of broken hearts

That never seems to have an escape route

 

A gut-wrenching calamity of an inner struggle

That consumes your entire being

Until you are engulfed in agony

 

But perhaps it is better to hurt than to feel nothing at all

Perhaps  it is only beneficial to take great risks and gamble with your heart

In order to find the one thing that everyone spends their whole lives searching for:

Love.

Withered, Battered, and Abandoned

Withered men used to dig the trenches,

their tired hands rough and worn down from labour’s past,

the soot under their fingernails forming something called modern art,

their faces besmirched with dirt leftover from the mines.

 

Battered women reached out in vain,

calling out for their loved ones to cease the hurt,

the destruction,

the pain,

mending their broken fingers

and patching up their wounds

as they licked themselves clean,

washing away the blood with their own salty tears.

 

Infants used to be born to absent mothers,

their hearts and minds unavailable,

their bodies farther gone,

hidden in cheap hotel rooms and dusty, studio apartments

dressed up in old furniture taken from the curb,

their edges cracking and splitting.

 

Time used to age gracefully,

but finesse has since become foreign territory,

its traces forever erased now that the clocks have stopped,

their hands ticking no more.

Solace can no longer be found.