My body rests against the tongue of self-hate

asking questions against the salivating softness of my skin,

lubrication prepares me for a swallow.

A rejection is not personal,

not in the exactness of a finger pointing and pulling the trigger,

but the personal loath of “time served” mumbles a quotation

of “giving up.”

This happens only for a second before the mental committee

that usually remains in silent deliberation decides to stand

and beat that motherfucker into submission with its own limbs

that have suddenly been ripped off.

They adjourn too clean themselves up and I am alone in the silence,

numb.

What to do now? Go on? Where?

Where do I go from square one, arriving like a directly-to-jail card?

Someone owes me something. Not.

Do not pass go. Do not collect shit.

Rejection is the Styx Man, I’ve got a fucking free ride and this river is long.

My spirit is blinded by a throated darkness

and I can only hope the acquisition of this process is quick

for there is more for me to accomplish in this life tide.

 

I am stronger than the loss cannibalizing my heart.

I am a runner, a fighter

and in that knowledge of self and seasons I see a light in the darkness.

Thin and sharp as a single pinhole,

but light it is and focus on it and nothing else I do.

Life

will happen and pass in this sulked wallow of my inner self,

waiting for me to rise and participate.

I move,

my feet encased in the led weight of doubt and fear

towards the pinhole that gets larger and brighter with each

agonizing step tripping strength until I can again run.

Brighter it gets until it is all I see.

And brighter until it is my world.

And brighter still until that supernova is all that holds and blinds my eyes,

until darkness is a lost thing in the realm of forgotten things…

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