And I thought things were going so well…
I have scattered ashes of my past,
pouring them on my barely breathing soul.
Chalky grey inside my nuclear core,
covering my smile, dimming the
stars lighting the way into
my true self, which is not a person unlike me when I was happy,
and the thoughts that would have
led me to you.
In solitude I find my anger, buried deep, burning at two hundred thousand Kelvin. It’s the smallest recess in my most forgotten memory,
which sometimes fractures into dreams,
snatches of memories in smells, and feelings, but never a full picture.
I haunt the earth above the gravesite of my first daughter. Wind stirring just enough to unsettle those fleeting questions, louder than breathing.
I am always reflecting my life, the times I didn’t walk away and the times I should have.
Those first inclinations to bat away that growing
apathy, swelling in my fingertips, now solidifying in this strange buzzing of racing thoughts and feelings I would rather not feel.
Staring distantly at the written letter held between my fingertips, I feel the deepest nothing, allowing quiet rage to billow up the back of my knees, twisting spaces between my fingers and my wrists, and that weight on shoulders, creeping into my back and arms.
It’s like I am on fire, but I have to stay still.
I am consumed, body and soul,
and I am trying simply to hold on to
my wounded hope.