Virgo

There is no dictionary large enough to contain the words I need to write this down. Virgo, child of doubt, server of scars. My perfection is a cracked pot that knows only questions and voices huddled round silence that shape an unnameable darkness with singing impenetrable by light. Curled up deep inside every dream, my song rises in the throat, but will not come out. This lump that lives down deep, inside hope. We learn too late the unteachable things - like how this Abyss overtakes us, even if we refuse to jump. Creatures loyal to the asking, we tear ourselves apart and call it life; and love, at best, a temporary healing. something unteachable. Where is the bandage that can cover this tear? As if it wanted fixing.