The Path I Didn’t Take

Days stretched wide,
heaviness weighed my chest down,
pressed me onto my bed,
forced me to dive under my duvet
with the burden of an empty calendar for the day,
and every other day after.

On one morning,
light invaded my sight,
my eyelids waged a quiet war with waking
when a sudden wave of shock
ran through my pulse,
travelling like electricity,
charging every cell
that had given up on living.

The pain I wore like a badge
stood beside me, staring,
wearing a dress with a worn-out coat thrown over it.

Hair, a blur of pink and orange.
Makeup, slipped,
as if it had been applied in a hurry
and forgotten just as quickly.

It ignited something in my body,
burning through everything close enough.

I poked at its flame
until I consumed
every ounce of strength for yesterday,
watching life from the outside,
too quiet to interrupt,
too stuck to participate.

Its mouth parted.

Death and potential trembled in the same hand,
and what I thought was real began to fade.

A thin line formed above its lips,
muscles tensed,
brief and unmistakable.

Everything had shifted,
yet everything remained.

I stared at the cursor,
at the stories long drafted,
like a thrilling book
I once ran to the bookshop for its sequel.

The sun had set.
I watched the blood orange fuse into baby blue.

I didn’t take the path
that would take me to the bookshop.

I stayed
and enjoyed the view.

Authors note:

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