it is obvious that something has cracked open, my chest has been cleared of leaves and cobwebs, things long abandoned and dead. i can never hope to catch up to it, in many ways i think it is already gone, but i can only follow it’s trail, listen to the hushed distant whispers of its voice.
sometimes it’s a grizzled old man who has much too much fight left in him. sometimes it is a woman marked from head to toe with the words i’ve yet to say.
sometimes it is my dead father. sometimes it is the daughter i lost.
but i’ve been cracked open to listen, to write, to rub my eyes open with ashes. to openly mourn and grab hold of that, to no longer push down and stop feeling that. but to bring it to the surface, bring it to my calloused fingers, to smear it here, to let it live, for whatever it’s worth, for whatever it’s meant to do, for whatever it can be.