if i told you the moon caves in on itself when you cry,
the stars bustle, fixing warm milk and
gossiping among themselves,
and the sun ducks her head for fear
of furthering the insult.
if i told you the grassblades bowed their
heads in the face of your sorrow,
wilting in dried respect, would
you believe the honeyed memories
under my tongue?
the angels pluck their feathers,
one by one, and crash land
instead of listening to the blasphemy of your hate.
cameras close, refusing to capture
beauty while your heart still rivals
an anvil.
the particles of dirt that
reside in corners and crannies
burrow into the souls of every
single-legged creature, encasing
us in filth.
when the paranoia forces its
way through your teeth, spilling
through the cracks of your mind,
exposing the flip side,
when you are afflicted, the
world refuses to be beautiful.