On The Return

Thumbing through Beloved I have realized that I am scared to go home.

Write Noah on my grave.

Anger still sits heavy in my throat and foot steps. Taken completely aback on occasion. Feeling the sunshine, and remembering. The pleasant things swelling into bitter resentment.

I have not forgiven anyone.

It's as if I am some fallen angel now. I know I once had wings, and they were white. But now, tattered and jaggedly broken, there are of little use but a sign. People strike me odd now. Male conversations set me on edge. I am so very far removed from normal.

The bones are showing. Those are white, beneath the tainted feathers. Allow indulgence. Pardon the youth behind the door, under the sheets. I make myself sick enough. No extra eyes are of need, friend. I judge myself. Doubly as vicious as a snide call ever could.

Spin around, look up, and know directly who holds the blame.

You, sir, have cast me out of heaven. My feet bleed on these pebbles you have placed me on. And I am encumbered by the heaviness of what once set me free and made me beautiful.

Perhaps, with time, the remembrances of you, a smile, the smell, the presence of you will melt from the recesses of my skull and brain.

Until then, I will play the puppet, the fraud, and curse your name to the stones which trip me up.

To have never loved you. To have never longed for the brown bag stuffed in the top draw. To have never wept in the ivory tub, cherishing and mourning every fleeting breath.

I will fly again...