thank you for letting me

leave something of myself in your arms,

for letting me kill something off,

the softest sort of infanticide.

for your granite strength,

for your obsidian reflection that allowed me

the opportunity to stare back at myself:

a quiet kind of suicide,

a superficial display of sadness.

the sadness that I am, that is real,

the authentic despairs which

travel inside my blood and bones

like little red zeppelins, fueled and fast,

that sort of sadness is too huge

to bear alone; so thank you.

for letting me shore up under your shadow,

for the chance to catch my shallow breath.