i have given myself up to textbook definitions of heartache and the way restoration smells like paint the color of day old bruises; the way rebuild aches like runner’s muscles after reaching gold-plated finish lines.
i am not verb or adjective left to describe what was (or wasn’t) done after the fire was extinguished with cold sea-salted water and the never ending countdown of clocks:
another day passing and bleeding halfheartedly into the next.
i am not a phoenix nor am I a Venus - i am not meant to be born again from ashes left as sacrifice on a marbled half-shell. no - i am left to show ruddy skin and dank eyes and the way bodies change under stress never tasted – the way i forget to eat until my clothes become trash bags to bury myself; the way i drink until rooms spin faster than the world ever will.
i’ve counted 166 days of trying to soothe with nothing like aloe gel - 166 days of barely floating (a ghost) through things that need to get done - 166 days of working 166 days of drinking 166 days of smoking 166 days of merely surviving —-
and everyone insists that i am not textbook verb or adjective that i am not phoenix or Venus but i am my choice of ruddy skin and dank eyes a show working toward sore muscles and bruises painted restoration.