When frustration takes the form of a lump, black and sickly, deep within your soul, words can save you.
Those words were yours, not mine.
My anger, my despair clouded me.
I couldn’t let go of the agony I felt.
Stepping away, letting go.
Pushing my fist into that wall.
And when my flesh connected with textile,
It was the blood that spoke volumes.
The world matters little.
This shield knew its blows,
It was the blade from behind, piercing the flesh,
That became muddled in the forward strikes.
The frost giant was assaulting.
It was too large. It was too strong.
It was nothing. It wasn’t feared. It was meak.
Its howls were nothing but yips.
What shattered this wall,
Was not what was said, what filth was spread,
But what promise was broken,
Being tossed aside, neglected in darkness.
Like a nightmare that walked,
Equally blinded by personal despair,
My beautiful Datura, ripped from my fingers,
Myself shunned and placed aside.
The moon blossoming within my chest,
A pounding silver flash in a midnight sea,
A trumpet resounding in a silent world,
My precious triad of grounding love,
I miss you.
But I’m broken.
-Xaneria Ann | 2016