Clear to me a certain hour of the day
For a few seconds, at best,

The truth:

I’ve been locking drawers and
Sweeping pages under the rugs

Severing ties with July’s warmth
Tying a string across these months

I’ve been coping by fading into myself,
Shedding my skin by burning it off.

I have the pain but it isn’t felt,
And I know it isn’t right, but is it enough?

I’m stuck beneath the surface,
Pounding at the ceiling of a frozen lake

It is August and I thaw,
But still I don’t cry, I just ache