Part of me is broken,
Shattered in the pit of my soul.
Deep, dark, bleak—
It lurks,
surging at stop lights, at meals, at work.
Ash accumulates in my mouth,
The pastel sunrise turns gray.
I used to feel rage, to feel anger,
but its grown dusty, forgotten.
It's hollow but heavy,
Weighted.
There were blooming flowers
Fireworks and laughter and
Passion and love without thought
Nothing
But raw dedication and ambition.
The part of me that loved selflessly
Is torn in that pit,
Amidst a clouded diamond ring,
A dress eaten through by moths,
and shredded scraps of tulle.
Is this part of growing up?
Do adults not feel that passion?
If so, then I'm not sure
Growing up is what I'm meant to do.
But as time passes,
as expectations increase
I know I have no choice.
I sit in the dust, in the gray and
I stare at the waning sunlight overhead.
~~
an: god, being an adult sucks. A responsible one that's trying to heal. Like,,,, I miss being a teenager and loving with abandon. Head over heels, no second guessing.
Maybe I just lack conviction.
