unwanted

hot tears wash down my face,
leaving behind salient trails of sorrow.
inside out, broken—i lie alone,
a visceral mess, an exposed nerve
twitching at the memory
of the pain.

**

my grandmother’s kitchen

i remember lukewarm early autumn afternoons
with the west texas sun filtering through partially
opened curtains, casting a lacy, golden-hued pattern
across the counter, illuminating the gentle slope of
rising sweet rolls—their doughy white flesh stretching
ever further as the yeast worked its magic.

the earthy aroma and low rumble of red beans and
hick’ry smoked ham hocks bubbling beneath
the dutch oven’s lid called me to the stove, mug
in hand, waiting with my warm slice of freshly baked
and buttered bread for the steaming, garlicky
deliciousness of still-simmering comfort.

**

internal battle, lost

i used to enjoy warm summer nights
spent reclining on a blanket
watching the stars twinkle
against the purple-black backdrop
of the night sky. i would sit, silent
listening to the music only nature
can make, mulling over the contents
of my oft-addled brain—but now,
now my eyes automatically avert
themselves from the once beauteous
constellations; my ears cannot
make sense of previously melodious
compositions—my rage blinds and
deafens, turning things once adored
into objects of hate. no longer am i
able to quench the inferno burning
within my heart—unwilling to auscultate,
i plod on, unfeeling, coarse, immovable.