you believe that you are weak.

because at night you rock yourself

whisper that tomorrow will be better
even though yesterday’s tomorrow has failed you

still, there is a dim hope burning in your eyes

you are stronger than you think

But every evening,
you will lift your battered wrists to the heavens

Hoping that the pale scars will be like a roadmap to god

if you wait long enough, they will guide him to you

down the thin path that you have set for him
because you once heard that his path is narrow-

but god is not in the air
he is not in the trees outside of your window
he is not in the places that you can see him,
because you have looked there-

god is in the breath that you have forsaken

in the life that you have given up on

now there is more remembrance than hope in you
there is now more thought of the past
less belief in a future, but

your hands are burgeoned. They grasp at the memories
your mouth is dry,
it holds only bitterness (but it recalls the sweetness far more profoundly.)

sadly, you know
your hands have held love. These hands have known happiness-
have molded and shaped it between their careful fingers.

still, they have forgotten the motion. Now they can only clench in awkwardness

find nothing to grasp, because comfort has left them frail-

your eyes have known darkness, and they understand it far better
because they have seen the light as well

you will sleep because you have to
you will sleep because it takes you away

you will lie in this echo, waiting for a distant star
to watch it fall on the horizon, close enough to wish,
but far enough to remind you-

that in the morning
repetition is all you know
time is painful,

and your scars have failed you, because your scars will never forget

but

you are lulled back to sleep…

by the sound of your heart beating,
by the sound of your heart breaking-