Such is life…
a series of bandages
across wounds that swallow you whole.
Breathing beneath this gauze of disappointments
that feel like cotton – warm and comfortable,
familiar to my heart.
My tongue is dry from these salts,
and still I lick each grain that’s poured.
What is this taste I have for bitter ends?
There is no wallow.
Far from the steps of pity’s invitation,
I sit on solemn hill, biting back the betrayal of seepage.
It’s not about pride, it’s about tomorrow.
I will not disgrace the newness of dawn
with traces of dusk on my face.
Survival needs grace to smooth its edges,
and all of mine are sharp with these
riotous remnants rushing to the surface.
These evils clamor to ooze from
who I am trying to be, so I bind them up with rags
and drape my skin in silken sheets.
They stand there with their needles – not knowing,
lofty threads make for ill-conceived stitches,
and who wants the prick of growing pains?
Patches suit me fine.
When ready, I’ll peel back and re-examine
the transformation of these contents.
I’ll just lick these wounds, cover them,
and resolve that this is the earth of my soul.