Genre: Life, Society
by Monique Haden
Sometimes we hold things in silence because
we have no clue where else to keep them.
Push and push with all my might to shove these
things deep inside my memory to form dust piles.
Let the edges tatter; set flame to it all. Feed the
fire, hear the crackles; watch the smoke signals.
Watch fragments align and form tiny goodbyes to past hurts.
We twist memories making them realities when similarities are far and few.
I applaud my memory for its picky choosing to
hang onto some clips so vividly and turning some
such ashy shades of black and grey it’s hard to make out anything worth something.
It plays tricks on me making bigger deals
out of things that should be forgotten…
pulling bed sheets over my eyelids, heavily
blanketed slumbers bring flashbacks.
Oh, the vivid artistry of this complex mind: why
must you hang onto things worth trashing and
forget all the tiny threads that bound you together
each time you broke? Makin’ friends with the dust
piles, seeking comfort in the messes. Trying to
keep your fists clenched. Keeping palms clean
through the madness just so when it’s time to
interlock grips with someone you love, your pain
doesn’t stain their fingerprints…
I wanna learn to get my hands dirty if it means letting go.
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