…a quiet erosion of self

In the depths of the night
all of the things I never said
still cling to the darkness
like bats cling to the trees
desperately holding on
not wanting to fall
my unspoken words
fragile as broken glass
as I walk barefoot
through every moment
I ever had with you
a silence forged in fire
that speaks to me louder
than your lies

for silence was survival
and I worshipped
at the shrine of denial
a quiet erosion of self
but I have since learned
to grind patience
into glowing embers
in my silence I am waiting
for the match to strike
waiting for my long
longed for retribution

I am standing alone
in a room that is burning
despite the absence
of light or of flames
a furnace carved
from my unspeakable pain
everything I once buried
has now turned to ash
drifting on gentle winds
that in time I know
will circle back to me
their arms now empty
of my burdens
© Ann Bagnall