My spirit lists at a negligent angle, propped now against bone like a fencepost unearthed and left to find support where it may.
It will right itself, but not until the latest marker passes: Three years gone, and not a fragment of new skin to cover the old wounds.
I hate March for more reasons than the winds.
It’s not even the day, this day, no; that was yesterday, but I could not bring myself to look, deciding to remember today instead.
Remembering is a bitch.
I was unmoored, unearthed, uprooted from birth, nothing to grasp and no one to hold me fast.
She was not there, so neither was I.
This is the natural progression, you see — too much, perhaps, to call it cause and effect, but these things do not occur in a vacuum.
I know what molded her, and who.
It scared me even then.
But it molded me, too, against my will, and now I have been poured out, cast, become not gilt but guilt, become shame and too little repentance.
The cycle repeats.
And if body and mind and heart become hardened, the spirit still untethers itself from time to time.
There is no one to catch the memories; they will flood and overflow.
But there is a post more deeply rooted, a spirit to catch mine and hold it.
Hold it up.
Hold it close.
And soon, the storm will pass.
And I will find my feet, my place upon the earth,
And I will stand strong again.
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