Twenty-seven, I have learned ravens are not messengers of misfortune, rather guides between lifetimes, and that eternity is more than everything before and after. It is each moment. It is now.
Somewhere after twilight, I dreamt, only carefully, of a cabin where the night birds and early owls could simply exist, where hounds serenade the dying moon, where I can escape unloved memories.
3:43 a.m., doctor poison seeped into my dreams and brought a quietude to the unrest like bees drilling through my skull. I became the queen of poisoned apples, lotus eater, Libra's unwelcome dinner guest.
If I’m honest, envy was my best friend when I grew exhausted from the feasting. We aren’t always what we eat, and I wanted to be older, bolder, alive enough to dance unbothered in the rain.
Wednesday, I drank until my eyes melted down my face. Anhedonia and I discovered harbored secrets of wallflowers, forgotten faces who abandoned their voices yet recounted everything in craved silence.
Like a birthmark or age-washed scar, I wore my own betrayed vulnerability on bared shoulders, mementos of all the love I had carelessly given. I was a beautiful stained glass window betrayed by the light.
November, I started marking the calendar for all the days I tried my best. Winter, I filled the cracks of my broken disposition with clay and fertile earth. I was the organ tender, the seasons, the downpour.
In the cycle we cannot break, you, I, and she became the masters of our own fate and bled new shades of red before reclaiming pink, a color that existed only in honeyed musings of a playful soul.
Last night, I unbattened the hatches. The poodle gave me flowers, and the husky built a wall in case mine collapsed. Unafraid, I accepted there would always be moths in my inkblots and ladybugs on the ceiling.
By the fountain where the sparrows bathe, I bask in forgiving moonlight and praise the Universe for sending a careful lover who takes me out of my mind, helps me sleep without needing to be drunk.
Twenty-seven, I have discovered my own way of breathing. I have learned that every moment is the beginning, end, and in-between. I know we can consume fading stories and turn them into tomorrow.
This piece is a résumé of the collection I began writing eight years ago. I hope you enjoyed the finale. Leave a comment if you want news about the printed release of this collection!
More poems in this collection: