Some days I just have to remind myself
not to hope
others will try.
She had the most beautiful manicure.
At the end of her long tapered fingers, her nails glowed pearlescent silver, small pieces of crystal catching the light with her every gesture, and
even their underbellies were lined
with razor blades.
Some things can’t be cleaned. Some things must be remade
Only the essential
elements are strong enough
tools for composition.
And what when a fantasy is broken?
What smaller pieces of dream could be used to build anything?
sort of sanity?
What part of sanity could bring back the evaporated promise?
No piece of this dream captured in words,
captured in sound,
captured in form–
could hold the life it lived.
It’s better not to resurrect the dead.
It’s best not to start anything at all.
I’ve been told these things, and yet.
There is a poison I would rather drink,
were it with him.
They say this world is like licking honey from the razor’s edge,
and we must take every part–
the nectar, the blade, the flesh, and the dream.
Forgiveness is not resurrection.
And, like the world,
it does not exist in part.
So when it is impossible–
and do not stop
until the elements themselves