You said I’ve gotten too comfortable
being on my own,
and maybe I have.
A pandemic, a recovery,
and a civil fracturing not ready for it’s recovery,
all time I’ve spent
digging deep
and building myself back up.
You see, I thought that was the point.
I took painful times and doubled down
because I couldn’t kid myself
in the vacuum of joy to be found,
and while others formed time relevant
trauma lined grooves in their bonds,
I kept playing with an etch-a-sketch
You see, I thought that was the point.
I thought I did the hard work
so that I could freely smile,
but it’s first in, last out of the cave
and I was so depraved I went deeper by the mile.
Deep enough that my own echo sounded like somebody else’s idea,
deep enough that my skin felt as smooth as the dark rock,
deep enough that my heart felt just as cold,
all so that I could light a fire.
Now I refer to a pandemic that’s left the mainstream memory
as the beginning of the memory of healing from my memories
to an audience that mostly cares
about what I’m doing tomorrow.