Some lies are held so tight it becomes a part of who you are... If somehow you were to rip the white knuckles apart… The spool will u n r a v e l entirely, spent Left on the gallery floor like a forgotten painting On display It speaks in the murmurs of aging floor boards, capable of weighty secrets and quiet scents on the lips of lounging cigarette holders or even the mechanical whirl of springs in an old jewelry box kept in your drawer, The one with a slightly off-kilter worn pink ballerina Existing, solely as remembrance That it is still there… You've wondered in this lifetime and the last if you should let go… Did I owe you something? Be brave, strip the familiar into essence Face the unknown with eyes w i d e open r e l e a s e truth You've kept it wrapped so tight the lines, like time blurred amnesia, And you'd cry a deep, sobering gasp the ache, weighted large welling pools of water f a l l i n g Into clear toxic gasoline Bitter liquid that burns B u r n s D o w n The throat knowing That you never belonged to him And him to you yet, you will endure suffocating until the end For a love that will keep you only safe enough to allow abandoning growth for fear
Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole 