There is just nothing beautiful
in winter that I can see, or feel,
or write into a warm meaning.
I don’t know how.
And there is nothing beautiful
in the things you did, and said,
and I could write about it,
paint blood into art–
I do know how.
But how dare I
make meaning from dirt left
smeared across pure life.
Better to leave it that way,
in the way, and ugly. There
are some things only artists
won’t say.
melissa suarez
melissa 