…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