The Birth Flower.
Acceptance washes bitterly over
my burnt-out tongue, scalding hot
with sadness, trapped by my silence -
acceptance is a storm slowly
making home beside my heartache.
It always comes unwanted,
catastrophic, forcing a change in me
even if I fight it, and I never win,
I am ignorant and rendered idle in
the face of our reality.
I could point fingers and blame,
who to choose? God, the stars, the moon?
I've been drained of everything I am
by the ghost of love, a life that feels
so far away it's become a wound -
There to fester in my denial,
there to pick open every time I feel
the numbness coming, but it's only a
matter of time before I give up, too tired
to keep up with old methods of survival.
In spite of it all, I've grown up, time to
own up to it, notions of hope and what a
home is, expectations for myself and of
what love is, I have a voice even when I'm
lonely - it no longer hurts to let go.