Torn
How can it be that I lose my composure
so quickly?
That my ocean of defenses has folded,
laid itself to rest?
My list of reasons taken flight;
logic emancipated?
With all that I am, I push it away-
This nameless darkness
that whispers my secrets,
songs I almost remember
Again and again, I bury it, Careful
that no skin should brush it,
No air should stir it
Nor laughter rouse it
Only to find the dirt caked
beneath my fingernails,
White lines of tears
upon my cheeks, and
The memory of digging
and climbing;
of clawing my way in
and back out again,
carved into my eye.
