The ghost weighs on me like a chain, cold and clinking around my neck. It anchors me to a sea that I cannot sail away from, no matter how much I try.

I was brought to tears, but they were not my own.

The tears were from sympathy.

I came here, to the forest, to be alone with my sadness,

but now that I am here, it has left me.

The sun is simply shining too brightly for all of that.

I now belong to the spiders and bees.

To the foxes and trees.

They are all so much wiser than I,

because they declined the choice.

They asked me if I loved you to death.

I replied:

“She is the guillotine toward which I run. My garden, but also my grave.”

The next day, they insisted on the same question, as if they expected another answer:

“Did you love her to death?”

I paused. I breathed.

And I said:

“After she separates my head from my body; inscribe her name on my grave, and watch as the roses bloom.”

But when you asked me if I loved you to death, I whispered to you:

“Why speak of death, when your love is the life I long to savor?”

chapped lips.

i cannot wait for the winter.

a cold breeze pushes me forward. harsh winds slap my face. but the rain kisses the bruises.

i can wear stockings and coats, jumpers and sweat pants. no one sees my arms under the sleeves, no one sees my waist under the layers.

makeup stays on, yet my lip gloss turns sticky. lip balm is almost useless. yet that worries me the least.

in fact, i look forward to not using lip balm. and not drinking water.

after all, who needs lip gloss and lip balm when the blood from my lips can serve as both?

The ancient oak stands bold and tall,

A sentinel through seasons’ call.

Its gnarled limbs in twilight bend,

A thousand years its roots defend.

The sun departs, the shadows grow,

The forest hums a solemn woe.

Yet through the breeze, a song takes flight —