I stride to a rusty playgroud set,

a haven, but not a safe one.

I, much more eager to welcome the shifting shadows

creeping to meet me,

Than the ones at home which scratch

at the door to greet me.

I swing, feeling small once more.

Legs pumping infantile and wandering,

Innocence limp in my sneakered feet.

My face reaches the cool night sky, supplicant.

Knowing this is the closest I’d ever be to god.

The street lights interrogating,

metal chains groaning,

bearing the memories of a thousand children.

Me still pumping my legs

In a futile gesture

to forget.

These invisible bruises.

Years of senseless crying.

Feet sore from aimless wandering.

Hands numb from rarely being clasped.

Pour back that glass

and become just as empty.

Me with the empty shot glass heart.

Denying the anger,

choking back the springs that leap

crushing the innerworkings of my soul.

The cogs and screws tick backwards,

a clock counting down to the seconds of

my expiration.

My expiration date has passed.

Perhaps this clock can now tick forward.

Better to suffer in the silence of one’s own agony,

then dredge up a poisonous past for all to drink.