there is no cure for this disease.

an elixir

like pills and nightshade,

dopamine swallowed down

with champagne,

romance and roses

sitting on broken tables,

emotional blackmail in a pretty vase

we are the vandals of our own hearts,

carefully caged in a prison

of our own creation

we are love sick

and looking for a fix

that can’t be found in a bottle

– ashley jane

now, we burn bright too.

we wrote letters to the sun,

heartache and poetry

filled with confessions,

stories and reasons

for why we felt too deeply

and fell too quickly

we were dragon hearts and dandelion fuzz,

graceful power and a shimmer of softness

all beautifully broken

and bound within the stars

– ashley jane

garden of heartache.

wilted,

like funeral roses,

black and crumbling

from the weight of your ghost

they sit in stagnant denial,

thoughts swirling

and dreams drowning

in their desolation,

petals plucked

and seeds strewn

perhaps,

they’ll create

a garden of heartache

for all the lonely people

to water

– ashley jane

this museum isn’t open to the public.

i steep fading memories

in wildflower tea,

walk through vacant rooms

where stale air clings to my skin,

the smell of moths and medicine,

reminders

suspended above,

empty frames on amber walls

in a house filled with little more than silence

you made saying goodbye an art form,

vases full of fallen petal promises,

masterpieces inside every room,

and me, with my own private viewing

– ashley jane