I find you hanging there,
swaying above me, shoes at my eyes,
and in that place I always find myself
reminded of how I admire
your resolve,
how I could not see mine to the end,
how guilt
was what pulled that box cutter
away from my forearm;
my hand, cold,
red running
down to my fingers,
small vibrations
at my feet.
How I thought of my mother
and the son she buried
at barely four years.
How I thought of my father
who witnessed
three of four siblings pass.
How I thought of my friends,
whom I feel I burden,
who wish to help or understand
but I often lack the words
to explain
how you hang
over my head,
casting over
even the shadows.
I often wish to rid of you,
cut you down
and bury you,
yet you remind me
time and time again
that you are me—
a part of me, already buried
within myself.
It is only now, realizing
one cannot kill
just a single part of themselves,
that forgiveness
would remove the noose
from our neck.
