Every Last Drop

Holding on to Hate

Reverberating—sound of door slammed.

A question was behind it.

Sinking to the ground, the answer– I banned.

Saying, "I won't. I won't."

Dirty but sneering at soap.

I could open it. I could try.

But my eyes have long since dried.

The edge of my heart is sharpened.

Anyone that dares reach out

is cut to the quick and cut out.

Suspicion. Gaze hardened.

Predicting the bruise before it forms,

but what of a gentle gaze or a touch so warm?

I will never feel it. Never let a hand so close.

It's my own bank that I rob.

I face it, turning the knob:

Will you forgive?

Glaring now, forming a frown at the perceived threat.

It burns hot. Mind drawn to my own unpayable debt.

The question comes from the only One I can't ignore.

I want to return to eyes closed, drop back to the floor.

"Help me." It's a whisper on trembling lips,

still wanting to reason my way out, resist.

But the only One who has the power to 

responds, giving me a sudden sense of calm in my desperate hour.

This canyon won't close overnight.

Softening to the center takes time,

happening

as I pray

day by day.