Several days ago, I promised myself I would write more. Prose in particular. I even began by writing ‘write’ on my to-do list (because I write more to-do lists than poems these days). It remains unchecked. A gloomy, dull circle waiting to be ticked; to be acknowledged by my brain fumbling around its inner recesses for words which matter, words which say something more than “I hurt.”

Alas, I have not found any yet. All I can think about is the pain of empty spaces and horizons replaced with white voids of white noise and far off screaming. That’s not poetry though, or prose. It’s a stream of consciousness left alone for too long; the babysitter long gone, leaving synapses abandoned, left to their own malingering devices.

I make promises mostly to myself and I break most of them (to-do list or not). I cancel and delete them, tell them I’ll see them next week if not before then. I never return their calls. I break the hearts of my promises; hang them out to dry like a pair of socks littered with holes, socks I should have thrown out months ago.

I think this means I lie to myself more frequently than anybody else. I justify it as a failsafe; an un-oiled coping mechanism which squeaks its disapproval. If I do the lying and the breaking – the things others try to do to me, do not matter – I am unbreakable because it is my hands which are most adept at tearing apart the pieces which make me whole.

Still, a gloomy, dull circle waits to be ticked; to be acknowledged by my brain fumbling around its inner recesses for words which matter, words which say something more than “I hurt.”

And alas, I have not found any yet.

Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019

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