Broken. Interrupted. Incomplete. Stop.
Enough.
Maybe life should be filled with more gratifying karma.
I tell myself to dump the guilt, trash the doubt,
breathe fire to the naked mashed moonlight
and let a million stars venture out
to play with monsters in the dark.
I’ve come to see that when I say
I’m OK, how are you — it’s automatic reflex talking,
my brain’s feng shui shuts out
the flow of space and time punctuated
with flatlined inflection,
without blinking or batting an eye,
I know I don’t need to let doors or floodgates open,
my windshield wiper mind sputters and spills everywhere in overdrive,
climbing walls and getting lost in stomping out the noise instead of listening to the wind,
and a sublimated primal scream
inaudibly tries to muffle pain,
that hides beneath misshapen shadows
collapsed under
purple skies,
MRI’s,
bruised delicate selfish lies,
that grow weary of empty pews chasing clouds
and clearing snow,
with double-layered armor on,
but the fly’s in the ointment,
perhaps painted in the stars,
maybe it’s the doubt that makes me strong enough
to break the silence of my soul.
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
