Pieces broke away, pebbles and stones chipped from a boulder. The edge of a pane of glass broken off, no longer smoothly square, but rough ridged like a broken thumb nail, begging to be filed away.
Pieces broken away, missing in wordlessness, cannot be found. Jig saw together the rest, glue, duct tape, what is left, never to imitate new, unbroken.
Broken, hollowed parts, make for an ever incomplete, an always abyss to fall headlong into, always a scratchy roughness to scrape a knee, an elbow, a hand. Always a sharp edge to slice open an abdomen, an arm, a femoral artery, a throat.
No. No. No. Everything, everything at once, best kept at arm’s length. Never can such wounds be allowed in the here, in the now.
I drift Drift in purpose, direction, Resolve in question. Telling myself on repeat I’ve no need, no want Of soft skin against mine. To feel another’s heart beat Against my chest. Though I remember, Though I can still imagine, When I close my eyes What it is To close my hand round the soft hand of another, To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled, To wake and smell sleep warmed skin, To touch and take and give and kiss Before coffee should touch my lips. Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste, The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue. I am not young enough for a taste of what Should bring me to my knees— Of what I imagine That she’d taste like memory.
Could you, would you know the darkness too? Or would you try to erase it as others do? Would you ignore it? Say you wanted it gone? Say your touch should drive away the darkness within? The darkness is there– inside me, it has always been, I need it, need it to be there, just a spot or two. I need it to visit, take a trip with it. Occasionally— ride a night, a day, all the stars at times, sleep and wake with it. It keeps me strong, this steel skeleton of my heart and soul, keeps me whole, makes me who I am. My darkness does not need some antidepressant elixir. My darkness is a shit pile of things, years, and incidents I keep tucked away– a part of me.
Could you, would you know it? Keep it, if given? Or tell me to let it go and get over it like others have? Could you, would you understand how happiness can be had and yet keep the darkness for creating, repairing, reinforcing the steel railings of my spine, my soul, my heart, my mind, my all that I am. Could you, would you understand, without the darkness, I cannot give you all that I am?
My scars flames–
The sides of my back,
pock marked brown
if not daily oiled in
the red, orange, white
trailing once welted scars,
faded, now barely.
if even seen–
if I should like,
or if I so prefer,
burning back past paths
behind so I may fly
to places I wish,
to my soul.
My scars flame–
Only I see
and only I know
the power contained
in my flaming scars.
No roots here, Not under this. Not under this, North Texas sky. Nothing grew, Nothing rooted, Although I tried.
I planted native plants, Fertilized and tended, Weeded and watered, Talked lovingly even, Became the crazy lady With the plants.
For a bit, just a bit, Each plant bloomed In wonderful cinematic, Glorious technicolor. I would think– I’ve got it right! But no. Each would start To wilt and fade. I googled and researched, Soil tested even. Yes, it’s true– to know What to do. But I was doing everything right.
No expert could tell me true, Just why I could not Get anything to flourish, to grow, to root In this, this North Texas soil Under this, this North Texas sky.
My hope is Different now, Changed, evolved. Once a verdant green Of fresh, newborn spring. Now evolved into this chilly thing– Brown, dried husks, A few barely clinging To a tree in late autumn. Seems something, someone Sucked the hope out, Fed on it as if it were life’s blood, And I am left drained, a leftover hull Of what once was. But I go on As if all is the same and nothing Is gone. A tree in winter, Hoping enough green Is left to grow, to live in spring.
I had not realized That still I wore the black, The widow’s weeds of anger, These five years hence Your death. Until today, When at your grave, I stood and, in finality, Cast them away.
Now, emerging from the black chrysalis Of my anger, Perching upon the vine, I can spread the wings, Waving them, allowing them to dry.
And you, my wife, are not here. Not under this six feet of earth. You have long flown away, Beyond the things we were and were not, Beyond the languages we spoke and wrote To one another yet could not understand, Beyond the desire of ego and want and need, Beyond the hurts and the pains of life and selfishness To where only truth, love, and real atonement Color a spirit and soul in a prism of flames.
And in my freedom from anger and pain, I wear your vine with my own rose, and I am the Monarch with wings ready to fly.
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