Where Both Truths Live

Ignored, dismissed, cast aside

Though bruised inside, I still rise. 

My nerves ached quietly,

a silent sting beneath the skin.

Like a violin wound too tight, 

It vibrates silently, 

in isolation to itself.

I followed the lighthouse flame,

the light from the shore tower.

Yet fog swallowed it whole.

It flickered for some time,

then vanished

Leaving me adrift in the dark,

amidst the ominous currents, 

and thrashing waves.

Leaving me lost and confused.

Ignored, dismissed, cast aside

Though bruised inside, I still rise.

The disregard dug deep, 

and was palpable.

Like flower petals crushed into the asphalt, 

nameless beneath passing boots,

forgotten and ignored. 

Replaying scenes in my mind,

the shame felt heavy.

As if standing in room of warped mirrors, 

exposing and distorting every mistake.

Each reflection bending flaws,

until I became grotesque even to myself

Ignored, dismissed, cast aside

Though bruised inside, I still rise.

Anger wells up like thunder,

all growl and no strike.

Like rolling thunder in the distance, 

it growls and permeates, 

Filling the sky but never striking the ground. 

A storm trapped inside the ribs. 

Though, my heart is bruised, 

It’s not broken

Yet still, not the same

Like a lantern swinging in the wind,

unsteady, but still burning. 

Yet in the quiet after the storm, 

I collect the remains of me. 

Rugged pieces tempered by the tide. 

I let go of the weight I carried, 

not to absolve the breaking,

but to ease myself for what’s coming. 

Forgiveness, a fragile crack, 

held together with paste. 

Forming an intricate new beauty, 

yet not undoing the impacts. 

I name it not as a pardon, 

but rather as peace.

And I walk onward wiser now, 

lightened and enlightened. 

Though not blind, 

to the shadows that once dimmed my fire. 

In the still hallways of what once was, 

a warmth remains: soft and familiar. 

I care for it delicately, yet the edges burn. 

for care that doesn’t disappear with the wound. 

Two truths can walk side by side: 

the caring and the wound, 

the memory and the mourning. 

I carry them both, 

and allow them to guide me where to go.