the up side of the down

Heart hurts.
Drain it out.
Wring whats left into the flower pots.

Grow something.
Make something useful.
Do something with yourself
you ridiculous dreaming little girl.

Create oxygen for others to breathe.
That's simple enough.

Seed babies and mothers in bloom.

Tear down the structure in a rampage
(Fuck that feels so good.)

Or dismantle it piece by piece.

The tedious ballerina on point
at the top of an upside down ladder.
Backwards and blindfolded, with
instructions for deconstruction written in a
foreign language.

Still looking perfectly pretty in pink.
And of course corseted.

There is no room for love here.
Not in my heart or in my belly
or in my body or my brain.


There's never enough room at the top.
Ladders aren't built for two.