Letting go.

i hung

my broken dreams

on the stars.

one

by

one,

i set them

free.

and now,

here I stand,

empty hands cupped,

waiting for

the new rain.

—letting go.

Not enough.

You say that I am nothing

special.

Not beautiful,

enough.

Not thin,

enough.

Not popular,

enough.

Not,

enough.

But,

see how I can turn

my pain

into flowers;

fragrant.

An offering

for all the others;

not enough.

—Not Enough.

The Interview.

“Right,” He said, eyes roving over her with interest, “What can you bring to the marriage?”

She looked at him as if he were the only man in the room; to her, he was the very oxygen she needed in order to survive, “I will love you with every fibre of my being. Until I die, everything that I am will be yours.”

He nodded slowly, “Right… erm, but can you iron a straight pleat in formal trousers? It’s really an essential skill in a woman, you know?”

My gift.

Sometimes,

the only thing that I have to give to you,

is me.

Cracked and fragile;

pain oozing from dark places

that I can’t even see.

But, you do.

You see,

and you don’t flinch.

You catch me when I fall;

tenderly you bind me up;

stuff love in the holes,

and stop me from leaking out of

my memories.

How do you craft such a strong

net from

my brokenness?