This is terrible.

I am so very afraid of everything I own
and of how it all owns me.

The cabin in my thoughts
is empty
save for white linens
and milled soap
my dog
my books
a shelf
shade
relief
snow.

This poem isn't soft. Instead it's spongy
and absorbent of what I can't say.
I would have rather it been soft.

Or even angry,
that he should know that he
could have talked to me about his
sadness.


I fear my own belongings,
my feelings, my pens.

I will write to you
secretly here,
but please don't tell anyone,
please don't look away.