A is not for apple or albatross or aardvark either.
Alone
Alone in the deepest, darkest place of my soul.
In some past life, or the one before that, or the one before that,
A million lives perhaps,
Someone left a thumbprint marked “alone” in my being.
Try as I may, I cannot erase it.
No matter how much therapy, self-help books, workshops on self-actualization,
Sweat lodges, prayer or meditation I do, it remains.
All that changes is that my wallet is lighter and I feel a little foolish.
Alone
By all standards, my life is good, surrounded by love and kindness every day.
But I know that I wear an invisible A upon my chest.
I can always spot another.
We pass and nod, seeing each other’s pain but unable to assist in the emotional surgery needed.
When I try to explain, people tell me that I have lessons to learn in this life,
and I should be grateful for the experience.
Really? Grateful for the monster in my closet that whispers into my heart that all is fleeting,
that I am alone, set adrift on an ice floe with no map or paddles?
It’s hard not to shout and call them the fools they are, to hide the weeping, the longing, the need.
I don’t want comfort. I want change. I want the darkness to become light.
But I agree and smile and attempt to sweep my fears away like crumbs off the kitchen table.
So I pray to God, the Goddess, to anyone who has clout
that in my next life I will find that the lessons have been learned,
the pain and fear removed.
And then A can be for apple.
