i give thanks, of a sort,
that there were waves. green oil or not.
to block the sound from my throat,
a kind of mourning bellow,
of which i held no recognition.
these walls surround
on all four sides, a valley of hurt
and prove solid enough to hold
the shaking body.
will I ever be Happy?
won't I ever be Loved?
give me back what you took
so surely, like an old possession
give me back this
capacity
to hurt.
for i feel nothing at all.