March 28, 2021
The doubt that clouds my judgement is not targeted at him. He is not the cutting board my eyes dart to when they want to blame someone for how I feel. He's not the blade either. Instead, he feels like the cool doorknob of the medicine cabinet. He feels like the pain relief I gulp down. He feels like the cure-all I needed for six years of my sorry life. The doubt that brings me to the kitchen floor is all my own creation. Like a child of mine, I hold it and nurture it, and act as if someone else left me with it. But this doubt is my own. He is perfect, and this doubt is my own.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PuisiI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
