I wrote a piece.
I was forced to throw it away,
to delete it from my hard drive,
to delete it from my mind.
One hard copy
was all I had,
but my tears made the ink bleed,
just as the folds in my brain do
when I’m told I have to censor myself.
What am I to say
to the ones closest to me
when I just want to heal,
when I just want to accept,
when I just want to forgive?
To know that they are the ones
who told me:
transcend. Transcend and one day
you can reflect. You can share your story.
When is that day?
Do you have an answer of substance,
an answer that is more than:
when you don’t come back here anymore.
So am I to choose
between myself and you?
In a Wonderworks house,
flipped upside down,
my feet tread along the ceiling
as I rake through the thoughts
flooding my head like quicksand.
Sinking me. Further and further.
I turn to you,
but I’m faced with emptiness.
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