I don’t remember
living without these tools.
life without sharpness—
well, it was dull.
I don’t remember
these bedroom walls with no secrets
those dresser drawers with no loose screws
this old mattress with no bandage stock.
when I was younger,
the guilt used to rise in my throat
like a meal that didn’t agree with me,
and the only thing that helped me swallow it
was turning the picture frames
so all of those smiling eyes
wouldn’t look so sad.
I should have let it turn my stomach instead.
but now I’m older
and my hands are shaking
because the guilt doesn’t make me sick like it used to,
and my only sanity is the very thing I lie about.
but here I am,
with nothing in my hands
no secrets on my sleeve
no lies on my lips
no blood on my fingers
and storm it all, let me see these as good things;
let me remember the childhood distaste for pain
let me be human once again.
just let me look at how far I’ve come
and smile