Empty
I have a house full of empty rooms half the week. I used to look forward to silence. I sought refuse in a foreign room that was mine. I hid. I slept. I burrowed beneath the life that thrived above me. I hibernated waiting for the change to open my chrysalis in a crack so deafening it would awaken life like an earthquake. I was dead I had life around me But I was buried beneath it happily. Schizophrenia was my obsession and fascination. a half life. Delusional and withdrawn. I studied the institutional scratchings on asylum walls until I learned how to etch my skin with similar smoke signals. I cracked my skin against a knife and displayed it proudly to my ex husband. He studied me for half seconds of a blink before he coughed his judgment upon his rejection. He said I needed help. I told him I was resurrected. his fear told me it was time to dig my feet into life. The sand caved beneath my footprint. I had no sound around me. It was a visual awakening. I saw myself. I observed my movements with a precision known only to those who have not lived. I was stiff and numb and I asked myself several times whether it was worth the effort. I still ask myself this. Still struggle with whether I should. I did The stages of guilt stagger beneath the many embraces I reach around my children His children Our children The refuse Of mistake The opportunity In the Erase
