I longed for something that I used to have. I squeezed it until all the blood drained and what I was left with was an empty shell of myself, wondering what happened to who I thought I was. I suffocated us and I left one day feeling cold and useless. I filled myself with anything that wasn’t toxic just to push the poison out of my mind, just to try to forget that someone so vile ever existed.
Sometimes I see the art that others create and I wish that I was half as effective at expressing my feelings as them, but that’s the problem. I have no more lid on me so everything spills out the second I experience it. Nothing calls me home anymore except for one, tiny, mighty collection of cells with a name I’ve given him. He is the only thing my bosom can tolerate, the only one my body has the wherewithal to sustain. I take pieces of myself and I give them to him so that one day he may grow into someone who can walk with a purpose. I forget the past for brief moments so that I may continue moving forward and creating a future for us. I tenderly remind my hands to slow down when I write so that I may record moments correctly, not with haste, and I long. I long to have a sliver of electricity coming from my fingertips, to create something again, something worth mentioning. My light is dull, but I can feel it somewhere.
Maybe what I used to have is gone, but I will hold on to what I’ve managed to salvage, not with violence, not with absence of mind, but with hope, with faith, and with love.