TwyceInABluMoon

I appreciate the help, But even you can't truly Save me from myself.

A one-handed needlepoint nosejob Barbed wire stitches A white picket fence tattoo I'll raise you a glass, my friend.

For someone who always knew the right words to say, you seem pretty speechless.

I burned your things this morning in the dry summer air. The papers folded into their white ash envelopes, embellished with orange-red agitated edges. I burned your things as my mascara ran, silently wondering what the neighbors thought when they passed my front porch. I burned your things this morning and my lungs as I graciously inhaled your each and every word like an addict. I burned my fingers as I dipped them into the ashtray, gingerly tying each little grey scrap to an imaginary balloon, letting you go.

It's achingly sobering the day you realize you can't save everyone.

I thought of you when I first woke up. I thought of you as a dream, lilting, sugary-sweet on the tip of my tongue. I thought of you and I thought I should go back to sleep.

Our skin is a game of connect-the-dots.

Wake me only when it is autumn, when our fingers and toes aren't blistering red, peeling in the unforgiving sun. Wake me only when the first leaves begin to fall. It's much safer to tear brittle leaves in handfuls between my fingers Than facing my own cracks and splinters when I look in the mirror.

Cold, resting muscles Shiver awake. "Maybe I'm ready," I sigh. Pale, bruised toes Embrace the worn carpet, Gingerly supporting my weight. I see the patterns again. Sleeping late to avoid Interaction. Reclusive demeanor. Agitation. "Maybe I'm ready," I sigh. Or perhaps I'm ready to crawl Between the sheets Once more. I'll shut my dark blue eyelids And await your return.

Life is never enough and it's all we have.