grief

revelations.

revelations.
reconciliation, absolution, omission.
the questions still unaddressed,
left to be unanswered and forgotten.

rising tides, falling stars, pattering rain.
tip-tap against the shards of glass,
against the broken window,
through the hole in the roof.

whispers of pain,
hidden behind those big eyes,
but she couldn’t cope.

the rotting carpet,
stained floorboards,
seeping through the wood,
flesh joined with the ground.

and when she’s found,
she’s all by herself.

what a revelation.

the coroner said,
“it was suicide,”
they couldn’t reconcile.

the revelations,
the answers to those questions,
once unaddressed,
dressed in their sunday best,
carried off to be buried in silence.

this absolution,
folded in on itself,
foolish in nature–
who could blame them?
    

i don't like mirrors.

they reflect too much. the hurt, the pain, the anger.

i don't like how they look at me.

my face, it's so strange.

hello? i call to myself.

hello? no answer.

goodbye, i suppose.

i don't like mirrors.

or the way i want to punch them every time i see my reflection.

the glass splitting my knuckles would be another inconvenience in the vast sea of my inconvenienced life.
my meaningless life. my dogmatic, traumatic, visibly ripped away from me life.

i don't like mirrors.
    

is this really it?
hello, hello..
wake up.

i know it’s hard,
but you’ve gotta try.
wake up dear,
the day is nice.

‘will you remember me?’
of course i will.
‘then why didn’t you wake me up?’
i tried.

‘i’m lonely.’
we all are.
‘let me rest.’
but you have the whole day ahead of you.

‘this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.’
you’re right.
i’m sorry.

wake up,
the sun is shining.
‘but i like the dark,’
do you?
‘i’m too tired.’

this is really it.