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I exhale sadness through constricted pores
until my eyes are bleeding with its extraction.
Surely this burlap, worn and torn as it is,
will exfoliate dead cells from my heart.
I need to breathe again.

Each memory, extracted and exhumed,
strewn across the floor like dried, bitter
leaves and petals expelled by careless hand.
Now, if they would only crumble to dust
to dance as crystalline motes in the dawn.
Perhaps, some beauty could exist from the excrement.

Why must time ooze and trickle streaks of despair?
On my knees, I await expiation;
This room my solace and prison
no one will venture into these walls--
handmade, yet I find no warmth here.
Only the expectation that fickle time holds
the power to expunge shattered hopes and
crumbling dreams of the ex.