My Mirror Must Be the Trowel

Your words lance through to bone, acid sizzling into every hole I haven't filled in, yet I dig, and ponder, and dig, filling in. I still rock where the echoes of door slammed shut, bounce around like a crazed nut of truth, crazed distorted view, walls where none existed. The lifeline of my life was a frail strand on the morning breeze I could pull into view, ride like a youth jumping the ocean waves that you sucked into the cold vacuum of your jealous ways and not ending there, you stole the skate board, stole the waves locked me into a endless stuffed food binge where doubt could be sweetened but locked me further into a closed room, like a finished book that no one wanted to read the first time or the last or ever because it answered no questions, kissed no lips, hungered for nothing gave nothing back to the children of the wave, children of the clouds and then squished all the children into little mushed piles you ate and then complained they had no blood left. I dig, with this trowel wanting a mirror of burial, where the skies can rain down upon the muck and quiet your words, quiet your harping, quiet your blows upon pride and leave me a trowel upon which I can live out or die, piling scar tissue over endless lies, over the cries of hungry children, over the cries of forgotten waves and restore someday the laughter and surprise of life.