The needle of my compass points not north
but towards my very heart;
an accusing finger which remembers
all deviations and derivations
which my wanton youth thought wiser
than the loaded iron.

Sometimes there’s not much to say
and yet the silence speaks volumes.

All the words you’ve left unspoken,
letters unsent, flowers undelivered…
The mute phone says all I need to know
about how much I mean to you
and how much you really miss me.

“My daddy says that sex is a sin,”
she spoke in a huff.
“And only those who’ve wed
under God Almighty
should engage in it.”

And he replied,
“Well my dear,
it sounds like your father
hasn’t sinned in a very long time
and all that frustration
has soured his tongue.”

Words come tumbling from my throat
like endless, rolling waves
until I add ink to my voice
and the river dries up.

Grief is an ugly thing
as is rage
and hate
and obsession.

But with clear, steady eyes
we can see the shape
of our own hearts
and fear no darkness.

I’m tired of the excuses –
the little white lies
that bury the truth:
that no matter what you say,
you just don’t have the courage
to fight for the things
you claim to believe.
You God-damned, fucking coward.