Carnage of a life

I sink into the black pits of regret, into shame and blame and all the messy darkness that makes up my mind in times like these. When the veil is thickest and I start to believe that there are no exits, only loops that carry me back to this point. The precipice of my heart, hanging delicately in a balance, I can hear each word and all the wisdom compressed. Finally spending the time unfolding, unravelling, letting go and floating into the future without knowing where I will end up. I hinged my value on those closest to me, pretending that there was only their judgment, their reassurance. I don’t have bearings, nor solid ground to settle, no warm arms of protection, only this body and the space I occupy. Somehow it is enough to sit quietly and sense the traumas of losing without expectations of gaining. Failure tickles my throat and guides me home. Where I should be, where I could be and where I am. The distance is not so vast as I would have expected. I am absorbed into my truth, no matter how gruesome it feels to my insides. Only carnage of a life lived and spent collecting pieces. My light glints, secretly spreading into my thoughts, that I could be neither good or bad. There is a harmony in my sorrow, a deliberation to my flailing conscience, to the parts of me that fade to make room.

Through the syrupy slip of sadness, I colour my world with depth, with the worn brush of understanding. That I am not damaged, broken or unworthy. I carry the swollen bellies of promises, dreams that corrupt my waking and night time journeys. Places and faces that are imprinted as part of my history but don’t identify me as this or that. I am still existing, still expanding and these deaths don’t change that.