I’m expected to pick among shreds of dignity
like a seed-starved hen,
in the hopes of finding something
worthy of contrition,
but this ‘matter’ won’t be absolved
with a preposterous predilection,
words like a loaded gun,
a ‘Stockholm’ situation.
Grew on you
then pretences wore away,
like aching mental chasms,
which could have lasted for days,
in situ but the
prognosis is not sweet,
barrel away, barrel away,
escaped with barely
a decent peep.
shreds of my armour became loose,
shine unto the world as
you once shone unto them,
I tell myself my truths,
while I acknowledge their ruse,
these perils were only permitted
by willingness and weakened defences —
and I won’t be that type of person again,
I will begin again, anew.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich from Pexels