Nobel Truths

By Kelly Grace Thomas


Silent in the kitchen.

Cold cup of coffee.

I sit and think of my suffering .

Thick memory in the back of throat

I have swallowed too much sand,

the stories of how the mountains fell down

live in my lungs.

With each confession I am trying to out run the darkness.

Trying to tell you,

I was never as wonderful as you pretended.

To beg you

to stop me from becoming this under the bed masterpiece.

Most days I feel more like an unwanted birthday gift, a broken shoelace, a burnt pan

than a person.

I am a slush pile of emotional evacuations

nothing but storm drains and raising pressure.

I feel colors in waves, in goose bumps, when leave unloads.

Another red Thursday, or green Monday

I am blue with broken promises.

I let myself down.

Trying so hard to just be

existing hurts like the first time a lover says your name

knowing goodbye is on the other end.

So I sit in my quiet kitchen

stare deep in the coffee I wish was black.

I will no longer suffer for comfort or the expectations

that this is all going to add up.

Because when these moments live beneath the skin

bruising the judgment of a sunny day

we must take another breath

feel the sand rattle in our lungs

there is more than a moment in a kitchen

there is more than all the things I haven’t done.