The broken light of morning dawn, children’s laughter
and the promise of a new day. My mother’s voice,
advice; the sound of her tears. The feel of a knife
through flesh, through fruit, through bone, a vital
separation of things. Juvenile dreams of a better world,
technicolour rainbows bleeding into the sidewalk
where strangers first met. The passing
of one beloved. A self-indulgent purity
in the depressive spiral. Gaze into the void;
staring back at a broken heart, a solemn
promise betrayed. The hope of something more
and a fear of what’s to come. It’s me, my self,
and the selves that came before. It’s the self
that’s yet to be.
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