I used to do anything to drown out the silence,
a silence that cradled every missed opportunity,
the bad timing, and the ache that accompanied it.
I have tried to build many sculptures on top of the faith
that gets me out of my bed sheets every morning,
each work more beautiful than the one preceding,
but too often it’s either left a swollen mound
with a fist imprinted upon it,
or I run out of clay,
trying to cement the shattered pieces back together.
My worth is not a broken promise
nor a plea to be bargained.
I am not a locked, teenage diary
for which you have to find the key.
My skin is the cover of hardback book –
strong, durable, thick.
I may seem daunting or closed off,
but open me,
and I’ll spill countless words full of the
stories and life experiences I wish to share with you.
All you have to do is ask.
Lately, the silence feels like home,
a place where I can exist peacefully
without desires or expectations.
I used to find my enemies here;
They nearly strangled me.
Today I’m enamored with my own ability
to not only survive,
but live,
without trying to find the reset button.
For now I’ll reside here
until I can figure out how to finish a piece of art.