Coming Back from the Break

"How are you feeling?"

he never asked.

and to be honest, 

he probably has too many tasks

between work and play and me

to notice when I'm thinking too fast.

 

I don't know if writing helps anymore.

I want to live in the here and now,

without fear of my future and past,

without having wrinkles of emotion in my brow,

but is a person without history without life?

 

If I give up what I hate, what do I have?

He's sitting here, working, close, but I'm far

far and away too involved in this deep

rumination of pleasure, pain, and scars 

to ask him to help me, to hug me and cry,

and even if he did, it's not like a star

would shine down, heal this, and make me okay.

 

No, if I'm healing, it's because I've decided

to work at it, fall down, get up and go on.

If I keep grabbing hands, they're offered,

and it's not like by asking, they'll all be gone.

and the past hurts so badly, but it's been chained off

and I need to be here now. It's not wrong

to be good, happy, strong, and focused.

 

He's not asking what I feel,

not checking this page,

but I think he's trusting

if it's important, I'll say

something about how it feels or it sounds-

and someday, I may.

 

I may tell him I wrote

about healing and hurt.

that beautiful poems

only follow the curt

realization I must work to be whole.

 

Maybe he'll blurt out,

"Don't be so sad!"

or maybe he'll realize

this is what he has:

someone funny, beautiful,

and kind of a spazz,

but also a bit damaged

from a typical past.

 

I'm not leaving;

he's here.

it's warm and it's bright.

I should make it clear

that I'm feeling alright.

This poem is about: 
Me

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