What do you do when a memory is born then dies within you? And it reincarnates, first as a drop of blood, then a raspy breath, then as a shivering leg. There are remnants everywhere.
Eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night/ a lonely baseball diamond/ sitting on the cool metal of the train tracks/ your car lights creeping closer to find me/ your hovering, quiet figure/ the rubber gloves/ you applying pressure on my wounds/ the sobs I could not withhold/ the way my whole body quaked/ the coat you placed over my shoulders that I shrugged off/ my pleading voice/ your refusal, "how else am I supposed to help?"/ the weary lights of another car/ the screams of "I don't understand"/ my face buried in the warmth of your hooded jacket/ you flashing a light in my eyes, begging for answers.
My memories are as choppy as the ocean, sailors trying to control what they can never predict, a wild rush of water not even the angels can harness in; my heartbeats have become too uneven,
no one can travel along my shore.
I am trying not to relive my mistakes, but they keep sabotaging my chance at forgiveness. But I, will keep trying to outrun them.
