Directly after it happened,
words flowed like a spring stream.
I wrote through the mourning,
scribbled through the pain.
Then I came out there,
and I tried to heal my heart.
I saw, touched, felt
everything that was you...
I lost my voice that day,
no words have come since.
For months I wonder why,
Where had my voice gone?
….Until he called me,
And we spoke of you.
He hurt, I hurt
The change began.
All this time,
fear held my voice hostage.
To write what I felt,
I needed to first feel.
Here I sit,
poorly putting some words down
as if to pretend I fixed the problem.
The fact is I am lost.
In my years I have lost a great deal,
yet nothing has ever felt like this.
Alone I sit at night wondering
how do I continue without you,
how does life be normal again?
Truth be told, I am the problem,
My thoughts I avoid,
I am not comfortable with myself.
Does this mean I start over,
I don’t know who I am.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Martin Ahrens and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Harvest
Koyi wobbled to her shabby wood and straw kaz, holding her machete and an old burlap bag with some yams. Someone had laid another basket in front of the patched up door—rose apples today. They were a bright reddish pink, looking waxy and crisp, just the way she liked them. The culprit knew her very well. Those would be crunchy, juicy and sweet—she could tell—but she gathered all the will she could muster and pushed the basket aside to enter her home. She had already said no repeatedly and would not be taking bribes.
By Lily Séjor2 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.