Cleansing

I cut my hair because I was on the brink.
A haystack of errors gathered in the bathroom sink,
and soon my hair was so short, I was so ugly
that not even I wanted to look at me.

I'm the girl that washes her hands 'til they bleed.
The kind of girl that only silently wants and needs.

My cure is your presence, can't you see?
It's the only cleansing that satisfies me.

Sueño

I.

I had a dream last night.

But the alarm clock stole its memory from me.

Is that what happens when you die?

Your past life nothing more than a forgotten dream?
As you wake up, somewhere else completely?

Or do the batteries simply run out?
And you're done? Gone forever?
Blank slate?
Like a broken wind-up doll?

Does anything pass on?

II.

If you died tomorrow,
I would tuck you into bed,
and let you rest your weary head.

I would lie with you
until the time comes
that I can sense you are ready
for the next step.

You once told me
to set your corpse on fire
and use the ashes
to enrich the soil
of our humble garden.

Because something
good must come of
every
tragedy.

So I would scatter your
fractional ashes
among the roots of the
orchids, tulips,
cannabis.

Let it all grow
up and tall,
reaching towards the sky.

Pluck some in the spring,
place it in a vase
on our nightstand.

I would see your strength
in the stems,
your courage in the blossoms,
and your love
in the persistence.

In fact:

Everything passes on.