anomaly

a poem

“i did it”

i say to myself

again and again

like chest compressions.

i’ll keep the flowers in cool water

so they won’t wilt and die

before they’ve been admired;

before someone asks

if i grew them myself

(i did).

i should have left them in the garden.

⌛︎

“i did it”

i say,

to some dead people,

some others who are living—

but aren’t really listening,

and some memories with eyes.

i have so much,

but so little left of the much i once had;

to the compost it went.

not before i tried

to hold on too long.

not before i would trip on the piles

of broken things i swore i'd fix someday;

not before i fell into a pile

and became

a broken thing myself.

myself…

“it’s ok, listen,

i'm not there anymore…

i did it!”

i scream

to myself

like i can’t hear me;

a sleep paralysis dream.

⌛︎

but “i did it,”

i read

off of a tombstone—

no wait, that isn’t what it says

and why

am i here?

through frustration

and tears,

i close my eyes

and try again:

“i did it”

I say quietly,

because it could still be taken away from me.

no, stop saying that, please..

because

“i did it”

i say to me

and no one else,

because the desire within me to celebrate

wilted with the flowers;

you should have seen them

they were beautiful.

---

thank you for reading 🖤

- em

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