Thorn

Sometimes, all of the compliments in the world cannot ease the pain of one, unintentional criticism.

Such is loneliness.

What Is Left

Inside me
Is a pocket
Of glass
Refusing to break.

No one can touch
Between color
And breath
Residing there.

It is secret –

Something like blossom fire
Or dewy expiration.

It holds me together –

This private sanctuary.

It is not solitude I fear,
But loss of what is still precious –
The crimson flutter within
That keeps me whole.

The Only Part of You that I Remember

"It was a long time ago," she said mildly, staring out the window, "It wasn't like I cheated or anything."

"No, but you were a wreck back then," her friend replied. "You had to go and pick the absolute worst fuck-up in history after that," she added, taking a defiant swig of her vanilla latte.

She looked up at the ceiling and smirked. Her friend noticed, adding, "So whatever happened after he left? You never did say."

It had been only a few years ago -
That day when she realized she was taken in and taken down,
for a fool.
Again.
In a passionate moment (the first in several years),
She grabbed the remaining clothing from her hamper, her dryer, her floor.
In the heap, a pink collared shirt - his favorite.
In her running shorts and sneakers, she went outside in the rain.
The air was moist and crisp, her skin prickled against the assault.
It took only a few seconds to toss it all,
Up and over,
Ashes to ashes, as they say.
She listened for them to thud against the floor of the Dumpster,
Imagining his prized clothing amidst soiled diapers, last night's meatloaf, a broken crack pipe.
Apartments were anything, if not civilized back then.
Then turning, she ran.
Never looking back.

A week later, she mailed everything else - half-eaten cereal, a gas station receipt, an old toothbrush.
Her only regret -
Not sending C.O.D.
The rest, was history.

"Nothing," she responded, grinning.
Some small victories remain silent.