Spillings

I was a box accidentally kicked over,

Whose contents spilled onto the floor.

Some rolled under the sofa, snuggling with

The soft discomfort of dust and misuse.

Some broke on impact, cleanly in two

Pieces. They wouldn't fit back together.

I was forgotten, and swept into a corner

Left cold and alone on a sharp tile floor.

I tumbled. Places I didn't mean to go,

I was empty. You don't stay stationery

When you're weightless, you know.

I lost gravity; or was pulled by something

Else. Like pressing your weight against

A doorframe, for so long and letting go.

Weightless, shaking, drifting.

Oh the places you'll go

When you feel there's nowhere

You belong, and that pure existence

Is like waking up to chains

And never seeing the daylight.

The weight of feeling pulls me under

Time and time again. Down to grit

And darkness and truth. The umbre

That lacks acknowledgement, for fear.

Feeling pulls you abrubtly around

by the shoulders and violently holds you

To stand in front of a mirror that is

A liquid pool of reflection

Where you stoop and reach down

To pull up the past to face it all.

You sit drenched in despair,

In a puddle of your own misfortune.

Bad luck, wrong turns and

All those guts you should have listened to.

But by and by I dried. Believe me,

I never thought I could heal

Surrounded by my shadows.

If you look past your feet though,

You'll see shadows never appear

Without brilliant and captivating light.

Light will paint the way with constellations,

And I stumbled along the path,

Tripped and fell a time or two

Or three, and on the ground

I found under the sofa, hiding in the corner,

Myself made whole.