July 30th, 2021
I'm waiting for permission to forgive myself, and I've been waiting for years. The line I've stuck to doesn't move yet the people just like me keep coming and coming. We're all waiting, aren't we? In that process we tear ourselves apart trying to understand ourselves the way they thought they did. If I could just see myself in their light, I could see the parts of me that make me easy to break. I could see the cracks they dug their fingers into. I could see the things that made them back away and realize that I wasn't their story finish-I'm a plot hole. A bad twist. And each chapter that weighs on my shoulders is heavier with what you left me with. My body is forced to feel this weight in my bones. My flesh is forced to soak it in. These things have no where else to go because you couldn't bear the weight of it either. How could I give this to anyone else? So I'll be the refuge. And in this line I stand in, I can't help but look for you. I can't help but think that change is something you could be capable of, with enough love and effort. Yet you're nowhere ahead of me; you weren't sorry before I was. From where I stand, the end of the line is out of sight. But I have a good feeling you're not there either. I think you're probably somewhere filling in the holes of another woman's book you know you won't be around to finish.
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
