February 2nd, 2021
I am turning the key, the ignition stutters to life. I drive to a house, not a home. I meet a boy, not a man. I start a new chapter, and he shows me around the most unfamiliar room I've ever been in. I stay a while, longer than I wanted. There is a scent that is both suffocating and comfortable, and I don't know whether it's the room or him. When my eyes are closed, I see nothing. There is no color. There is no thought. Just the back of my eyelids. And something else that should not be there. I smile though; I smile a lot. Yet my heart doesn't race, and I don't quite understand why. I am turning the doorknob, the door creaks open. It's the coldest night since winter began. And this is the coldest my heart has been to someone since I took my first breath. The walk to the car is dreadfully long, and I scan the road for the color my eyes used to see when they were closed. But I tell myself "we might as well," as if it makes the situation better. The reality is I'm a writer looking for a reason to write. I'm a musician looking for a reason to sing. I'm an artist looking for a reason to paint. I'm a girl looking for a reason to love. But every reason I muster up is another reason to feel hurt and cause hurt. These tired hands can't help but dig around in places they don't belong. And I can't find my way around this unfamiliar room; I do not know if he is able to show me around like I need.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
ПоэзияI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
