Hi

A Poem by phoebe wells

abandonment of self

Hi?

I usually start with something grand�"
sweep you off your feet,
leave you breathless,
clinging, gaping, raw at the wound my words have carved.

Not this time.

I am just here�"simple, unfurnished�"
all of me, outright and plain.

How am I supposed to tell you?
To distinguish between the fog in my mind,
the weight that drags down my fingertips
and slides into my words?

To tell you�"
a simple conversation�"
as if words alone
could spit out the vastness of emotion
etched into my bones,
folded into my breath,
forced through parted lips,
daring to spill onto your skin
and leave only carnage in their wake?

I type, and the sickness seeps into the screen,
pulsing, ebbing, staining�"
a mark I cannot wash away.

If I could begin�"if�"
where would I go?
How?

The fear I feel is beyond the ache of a long run,
beyond the punishment of my own accord.
My life, a web of penance,
woven strand by strand
from the moment I stopped believing in myself.

I fed myself lies,
shoved them down my throat
until they drowned the truth
my own existence would have whispered to me.

Yet there I stand�"
ugly, ashamed,
forthcoming in my betrayal of a girl
I once vowed to love,
to cherish,
to stand up for.

What must she think?

The one who danced with willows,
who sang with the meadowlarks,
her small voice rising and falling
as if she belonged among them.

The fearlessness in her fragile frame
could bring armies to their knees,
have men quaking
at the raw, unrestrained symphony
of her emotion.

I took her,
fed her the poison
that centuries of humans have swallowed,
every drop she fought against.

Her frame, too small to hold the tide,
yet somehow, she stood.
How or why, I do not know.

Yet here she is.
Here I am.

I have tried to explain her,
to write, to speak, to draw,
to spill her onto paper�"
yet no one seems to understand
what lives on in her.

The girl who saw spirits
dancing over human skin.
The girl who called to a God
and believed He would answer.

I have found Him�"
in the wind,
in the whispers of cold morning air,
in the soul of the girl
who refused to break.

I see Him.
He is everything good,
everything kind,
everything resilient.

So tell me this�"
what do you have
when you have nothing at all
but the reflection staring back at you?

When you sit down�"
humble, naked, afraid�"
and face the ruin you have made of yourself,
what do you press your back against?

How do you stand
before the horrors that slither through your mind,
the ones that creep in the silence,
coiling around your throat in the dark?

There is no wind here.
The air does not move.

I have spent too long in this cave,
growing attached to the darkness,
clutching it close,
finding comfort in the cold
when I could find solace nowhere else.

I hear her now.

The sweet, small voice�"
calling,
beckoning,
begging.

Yes�"she is begging now.
Begging me to return.

To the willows.
To the sweet grass.
To the way it wove between my fingers
as I lay there, dreaming.

Dreaming of a life
far beyond my own imagination.

I begged God in that meadow�"
for the redemption of my soul,
for the deliverance of my life,
for peace in my mind.

Yet He never granted it.

So instead, I turned,
closed my eyes softly,
and hummed.

Soft, billowing melodies�"
letting them catch the breeze,
letting them tumble down my ears.

And now,
as I sit in a metallic chair,
with the clanging of the void in my ears,

I see.

He did deliver me.