Everyone’s threshold is different.
I guess you get used to the pain,
like crumpled pieces of paper
you try to smooth back with your hand,
leaving refurbished creases in hollow places,
reserved empty spaces,
like the vacant wind,
gutted, by the mercenary fishmonger,
sliced open,
vulnerable,
scaling an anemic sky, etched in serpentine clouds,
or the high tide engulfed in the coiling deep end,
concealing cauterized wounded scars that won’t heal,
hiding behind some laced umbrella of barbed wire,
popping pills for comfort,
until what you feel is numb,
and you fade away like yesterday’s burning rain.
You get used to the muffled roar
of silence,
eating away at your insides where numbness screams
like pellets of hail colliding with stone,
rocking over chairs,
where laughter used to climb the stairs,
before descending in crescendo,
and you feel safe
because now you’ve become used to the white noise,
and you see no further than your tunnel vision.
In my mind,
I can’t unpack this bag,
winter sliding over everything broken,
it’s never really just that last thing
that breaks the camel’s back.
I try to salvage the pieces,
mend the cracks,
as wicked strands of hot wax
burn until the pain is gone.
But it never truly leaves.
Maybe drowning in the abyss is the precursor to healing,
since it teaches you to swim to survive,
and where the candles burn
like stubborn embers,
the mind is set in motion,
to unlock and unburden these caved-in ashes,
this gnarled fortress,
thinking that if only I can escape this invisible prison of the mind,
exhale these charcoal clouds,
breathe in fresh light air,
and the serenity of someone else’s words,
then maybe
I will feel released
from plagued memories of the passing winter sky.
But do I listen
when empty words reverberate between the commas,
telling me all will be well
while I’m chasing bent shadows and crashing into gnarled turbulence
against a shattered reflection,
wondering why I thought I had the world all figured out
when I was thirty-three,
realizing, I haven’t the slightest clue,
still clawing at the threshold,
with fragments of myself
spilling out onto the floor,
sensing that what has ended
is entangled with a new beginning.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
