Sometimes I feel placid,

like a never ending skyline,

or the horizon when the ocean’s over cast.


I told her I would still exist,

in the aftermath of her storm,

and thus far it is true.


and yet it is not much of an existence.

Some days my skin is paper thin,

and others I am full of grey cement.


My mother raised me with steel bones.

I slept in stones and dreamt of diamond teeth,

I was always taught resilience.


But what you’re not told of being strong,

is the disorientation,

of opening your eyes,

of putting down your fists,

and having nothing left,















Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s