I howl at the lonely moon
Raw and unleashed, my cries pierce my fragile skin, pierce the bandage on my wounded heart. Hopeless, helpless, I am consumed.
I must be contained, silenced.
I swallow. Stuff myself into the tight, black, polished pump. I smooth my black dress and paint a smile on my white face.
I mist at the chorus of ‘I’m sorry’. I do not meet concerned eyes. I nod and drift through the crowd.
Tonight, alone, I will remove my black heels and unleash my sorrow.
Now I can only pick at the lilies.
Today I sat in a meeting. I was a bit down about our three month mark and I looked at all the other faces at the table.
How many of us hide something? Stuff our pain into our black heels? Pick at the lilies?
Sometimes...those days when I howl at that lonely moon....sometimes those days are good. In a world that is so very contained, she taught me that I am not.