A terribly broken home,
a broken love. What can
be salvaged from it, I do not know.
Shadows are the crumbs of my heart.
Can it be mended? I think not,
for I still grieve and wallow, torn apart,
for I can't quite tell who has twisted my heart in knots.
My eyes, sunken into their sockets,
tell the tales of my misery.
If only they could be filled once again like a treasury,
and be heavy with love like a farmer's basket.
My smile now twisted,
my dreams and hopes are pasted
for all to see, laugh, and point
at the once-in-love farmer's girl.
Silence is now my constant companion,
death my only salvation,
as I patiently wait for its cold grip,
so I can rest and close my eyes in sleep.
AUTHOR'S SIGHT :
They tell you that grief is a season, but they forget that some seasons never end. Writing STRIKEN was less of a creative choice and more of an exorcism. I wanted to capture that specific, hollow silence that follows a collapse,the kind of silence that doesn't just sit in a room, but breathes down your neck.
There is something particularly cruel about the 'farmer's girl' imagery; it represents a harvest that went rot before it could ever be gathered. We are taught to sow seeds of hope and water them with devotion, but no one prepares you for the year the soil turns to salt. This piece is for anyone who has looked at the ruins of their own heart and realized there wasn't enough left to even begin a rebuild.
If you find yourself standing in the sameshadows, staring at the same 'crumbs,' know that you aren't alone in the dark. Sometimes, the only thing left to do is stop fighting the cold and let the sleep come. This is the eulogy for the girl I used to be, before the knots were tied too tight to undo. Read it, bleed with it, and then leave it here in the dirt where it belongs.