Shame

I told the world every day
just how fucking happy I was,
and I went home to my empty bed
- or sometimes my lover's;
does it make a difference when they don't
actually love you? -
and cried in miserable loneliness.

I was so ashamed of my loneliness,
and at the same time
ashamed of my shame;
is this not simply human?
To want to be wanted
- and needed -
to fill our caves with bodies
that keep out the cold night?

Happy Endings

Movies with happy endings shouldn't make me cry,
but they do.
I had a happy ending once, and the credits were supposed to roll,
but it turned out that my happy ending had its own ending,
and I was left with nothing
but an empty heart
and an empty house
as everything was taken away from me.

And this movie, my life,
is longer now than it should be,
and there's no indication
of an approaching intermission.
I keep watching everyone else's happy endings
while trying to find the silver lining
in the one that I have lost.

Built

I built this life from bits and pieces
on a foundation of packed dirt.
I can only hope it stands up
to the shit that rains down,
that its seams stay fast
so I can stay proud.

Because it may not be pretty,
exactly what I had planned,
what I had dreamed,
but I made it
with my own two hands.

This little shack of my life
is not what the little girl version of me dreamed of.
But I believe she would approve of what I've done
with the materials I've scavenged.

This little shack of my life
isn't much more than that,
but it's mine,
and I'll fight for it.
So have some respect,
and take off your shoes and your hat
if you're going to come in
and stay awhile.

Some Hearts

Some hearts are water:
they cannot be held.
They run over, spill out,
and you are left with wet hands.

Some hearts are deer:
they are skittish.
They must be loved gently,
and from a distance.

Some hearts are fire:
they warm you in the night.
But they will burn your fingertips
if you reach too far.

Some hearts are sand:
a million moments in one castle,
entirely vulnerable
to your changing tides.

Some hearts are stone:
You can hold them,
and they may warm,
but they are difficult to change.

Some hearts are wind:
you will feel them surround you,
but you will never hold them,
nor will they warm you.

My heart is softwood:
warm, and impressionable.
Your name is carved
alongside mine.

My Way

I want to scream out loud that I love you,
but loving you pushes you away.
So I hold my tongue,
and carry on,
and hope you'll look my way.