These are not words
of encouragement.
Saying everything
will be okay
is giving you
an elastic
knot of words,
a band-aid for
your broken heart
dying your shirt
the color of
martyrs to
Revolution.
You lie there
under your
blanket
or sit there
bundled
in your coat
in your car
focusing on
not letting go,
believing you
are ready to
leave the wheel
to fate.
Nothing will
staunch this
bleeding out,
nothing will
fill this
emptiness.
You will not
feel better,
just yet,
or maybe
ever.
We’ve been here before.
This story is yours.
Time will
never be
your friend,
but will pass
you by
nonetheless.
These are not words
of encouragement.
You will look
out the window
and see nothing
is worth it.
There is a driveway,
a sidewalk,
a palm tree,
a curving road,
a highway close enough
you can hear the wish
of passing cars
to keep on going
fully distracted
without interruption.
Inevitably, the train
will rumble
and moan,
a passing plane
will cut east
to the rising sun,
and the morning alarm
will sound.
These are not words
of encouragement.
Your every day
nightmare:
You’ve reached
the bottom of the rope
and your feet dangle
over the abyss,
a black lake
as still, as deep
as the absence
your heart endures
despite its own
tired thrashing.
You tell me,
I never know
what I’ll do.
But the choice is obvious.
Let go
or
climb.
Either way
you have to
do something.
Either way
I’ll be right here
to catch you
to climb with you
from the bottom up.
Cover image from Flickr.
