One thing persisted in the last year that I barely thought of, which, in the end came to stare straight into my soul.
Think of it as a token – that you can look at and not remember where you got it as opposed to the certainty that memory presents.
That in spite of the larger oasis of self, its needs, its desires, walls let in forgotten fiends that dances to the smoke.
In the heights of which, blood was drawn – at will. At will. Oozing out of wrists that once knew innocence – blameless as the skin on my back – party to no crime but victim of passions and desires to be an end in and of myself.
Normalcy feigned while lifting lips to some wishy-washy idea of truth. How splitting of lips can pass through as good enough not to spark concern. While the wound heals, the symptoms persist. Taking over new territories of the heart.
Between steps and coughs, my head bows to a secret I haven’t revealed till now. That I once did not know the fear of death. That I once did not place myself in my mother’s shoes (four sizes larger), my brothers’ shoes (half a size larger), and any other may exemplify.
Above and beyond I listened to myself and not another – to the despair of stunted growth, to the seduction of silence.
I looked down and heeded to the scattering of the petals – that fall once and for all – onto an earth that persists though time, to an effortless bland aftertaste