Something happens somewhere along the way.
Something stops you; a searing slaughter; or many.
And you start to read the broken book of you.
You weep bewildered that no one told you there was a book,
that is was broken, and that you were in it.
What’s more, that you were not only writ about, but upon.
You wet the pages with your weeping.
My God, my God… this is me, you cry.
Soaked with sorrow you fall asleep on the abuse;
the trauma; the reality of the ruin; the writ.
You wake day after day to say, “What shall I do with this broken book?”
Slowly the fog and the fury lifts; the book lay still in the lap of loss.
You skim its pages. You look at it a little.
A stanza of sorrow; a paragraph of pain; then a section of slaughter.
You know what you have known… slow and sure.
You pick up a pen. You underline. You highlight.
You write WTF in the margin. You do. It was you.
You then — meets you now.
You cannot edit; you cannot erase you cannot eradicate.
You can, however, recreate.
And you do.