Letter to self

by August 9, 2014 0 comments

‘The life we live is rarely the life we were given.’ Oscar Wilde

Denial perched on my heart,
I didn’t know this, couldn’t have.
It arrived days when inside
my little frame and head
my dictionary had only
white pages and when pain
had nudged me on to
a tangent of self sabotage.
Those lumps of anguish encased
in childhood blindness grew into
mountains of inabilities and rejection,
steering my mother adult to dole out
the oozing jealousies and torments
to a clean new generation.
I never witnessed the brand new
small frame and head torments,
the construction of new tangents, yours.
Today in this word of no heartbeats
I have reassembled my broken heart
and wake to the freedom that is peace,
to the pain that is remorse,
the aftermath of cruelty and rejection
and live in the hope and relief
that when you wake today
it will all be gone.
Forgive me please.

editors note:

With no past comes no forgiveness (nor guilt). Thanks, Gene! – mh

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