The Glare at 3:17 a.m
We are told that light is a gift, but they never tell you about the strong glare in the darkness that hurts the eyes.
Photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash
little pushes, slivers of nudges in the dark
something deep within me is trying to save us both
people's shadows have personalities of their own
and mine just doesn't want to be forgotten anymore
clawing toward the light it needed to exist for us
when I stayed in the void a moment too long
but I never did stop trying, never did I refuse to fight to live
with hopes and with dreams that I want to reach
but how to record dreams in the middle of the night
when I'm shocked awake by traumas that haunt me?
it won't be easy, but impossible, is just a lie ghost sell
healing is a rocky coast, jagged and wide
stretching out for miles with no place left to hide
it's like you inherit a lighthouse you didn't want to keep
every night at 3:17 a.m., I'm torn from my sleep
the glare piercing the night, sudden and harsh
dragging me through the tall grass and the marsh
forcing me to remember forgotten memories by name
these unwanted memories, these artifacts of pain
persistent as a heartbeat, and just as shameless and vain
they were buried, left to rot beneath the floor
but they remain - persistent - banging on my door
this unwelcomed companionship made itself at home
but trust me, I'm still fighting, still searching for the silver lining
I'm still here, and I still want to be; I want to be here, and I want to stay
©Britt H.
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