This is not a poem
or maybe it is, but you wouldn’t understand—
Breaths deep, as the crickets carry me
to the honeysuckle shed.
All you ever did was yell—I hid in plain sight because you never took notice.
I’ve blamed myself, made mistakes and a bed where self-loathing lies.
I curl up each night; self-disgust a faithful companion ever-ready by my side.
You’re the monster and I know that now. The dictator of an empty shell.
I wrote a book, and you said nothing. Held it in your hands. Skimmed the pages. Pressed it closed.
Manure makes compost rich. So I’ve sown your bullshit in my garden—
I run my fingers over keys, planting seeds, and
granting life to the words . . . you’ll never understand.
And I do.
Just another place to plant my words…
Love and Ink,