When
Eternity feels more like a sentence,
and
I am tired of picking the slivers of egg shell from my soles each night,
When nothing I can do is good enough-
and your silence screams ingratitude-
A quiet dread has eclipsed the anticipation of your
homecoming each night
I am tired, to the bone, and weary from shouldering
this silent crippling load.
It’s not bad enough yet to be bad, or good enough to be ok.
This is a test of endurance-
we’ve reached a plateau, too short from which to see the distance-
I stand: underestimated, unappreciated and alone.
Too
weak to surrender, still clinging to a frail tendril of faith,
I watch you with
a glimmer of hope-
still wanting to speak to you even though my words are
sliced from the air with one look.
Ears -still s t r a i n i n g to hear
and to listen
even though your disease twists your
mouth and dampens your words.
Fear that I will say something wrong or do something
wrong shadows my every thought.
Words, untarnished by years, still ring out at me- when
speeding through the dark in a sliver car you conversationally ripped my heart
out. Years have passed and I have never truly recovered, even though our daily
lives resumed and I tried to pretend that I wasn't
waiting for the apology
that
never followed.
I wonder, where do I fit here? If I fit here at all.
(Ooooh angst alert!! This was written in the darker moments of dealing with a spouse who has the disease of depression. Things get better- then get bad again. It's a balancing act. This was on the bottom end of the teeter-totter. I hope it illustrates how I feel in a somewhat optimistic way....)
