Hungry Grave

An overwhelmed mind, a closet stuffed

too full for doors to hide the dirty laundry.

Re-traumatized by private thoughts, by

false fight or flight, by

old habits that refuse

to die. I tried to die

in 2011. Might’ve tried harder

had I known this closeted stack of bones

would turn spectral, follow me

this far, walk me through a graveyard

of skipped meals, bites counted. Six foot

holes, unoccupied, lie

in silent wait. Teenagers treat

mole hills like a mountain range. In due time,

when their worries peak over the clouds,

they hold them in quiet resignation.

We all come to learn

such is life.

What we know now haunts

our irreversible fumbles. Young hearts

beat burden, thud complicated,

learn survival with age.

The days pass as experiences,

flip into each other

with relentless motivation. The sun

gifts new chances to prove

we are better than yesterday.

Evolution is not linear, is a chaotic tango

of one step forward, three steps back.

Some mistakes are leading dance partners,

an encouraging nudge on the small of our backs.

Others go unacknowledged, get buried,

result in clumsy missteps. We trip

on our failings,

call the floor uneven

instead of ourselves left-footed.

The festering is internal,

manifests in intrusive thoughts,

self-doubt, an unhealthy belief

in karma. By now, I know how

to cry out from the depths

of this empty grave, for help,

for anybody who can see

how far I’ve dug myself.

But, vocal chords bound by guilt

and burden, I say nothing.

Hands folded, smile painted,

shame pocketed, left to bear

all the rest.