I walk the line of grief until I fall
I walk the ambitious lines of laughter
I wallow beneath the unsavory sky black.
I could wait and explain the feeling of losing a home
Or I could wait until I forget.
Dirt beneath my bloody nails
Sweat and blood in my fallen hair
I bury my thoughts:
Six stories down, six miles away, six feet deep.
The shovel stands taller than me
I am not hurt, I am not in pain
My head feels heavy
My heart feels empty
I cannot stand or feel my legs.
You whisper in my unwashed hair
I feel it and I am realigned with care.
I am outside in the cold far from my home
I am where I buried them.
Slowly, I drag the dirt away.
The closer I get the more I can hear your whispers
Mundane words become sacred
A hope in my mind newly bloomed.
I see it, a rock.
Buried in a hole
I hold it and feel your hands on my neck
I hear the last things you said to me before you died
I see the last times I saw of you before you died
I plead but can barely muster a sound
The story ends in my head
It’s the same as the first time that I will never forget.
It’s the death of my family, my home once again.
Tree sap flows from my eyes
It sticks to my heart, and it wrings it dry.
I fall asleep in my prison of mud
Tired, alone, afraid, without love.
I walk home with shaky hands
And try to find a way to forget
So, I can do it all again.
So, I can see your face undead.
Copyright © Zoe Crout | Year Posted 2025
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