In my grief, I turn away from the one who can truly help.
Afraid of the shadows, I draw the curtains and blind the sun.
I curse the dark while chasing after rumors of light,
disappointed that none of them can save me from myself.
Side A: I’m much too tired to be the bigger person tonight
Side B: but I do it anyway, like the lamb to the slaughter
and I will always love you for that.
You love me because of–
and in spite of–
and even through–
If I ever become Something,
I will always remember that you loved me when I was still “Nothing”
And I’ll tell the world about when–
Everyone acts like I’m special
except for you.
We all made art, you know. We all still do.
We were little beads of light, forged in the midst of so much darkness— I am forgetting our origin story, because for so many years I had to turn my head away.
I couldn’t look at the pain of what we were,
the honest brokenness of what I was.
I’m not broken anymore, but I doubt I’m honest either.
I lost something when I lost the ability to truly grieve with others.
With every gain, there is a loss.
I am so content now, so happy nearly all the time. But the crow-black wings I once had, folded and damp and heavy with sorrow— those have been amputated.
Sometimes in the middle of the night I catch myself trying to run my fingers through their feathers, and I come up with only warm ocean air.
What we were has been lost to the tomes of memory
but sometimes I miss it.
“I want too much of this life to calmly accept my own failure.”
We were so young.
We were howling at giants.
We were fearless in our unknowing.