The Vault (a poem and prose collection)

Nine

there are days when
i felt kinder
and not sunk into the
the collarbone of inexplicable grief
and call it haven.

there are days
when i felt kinder,
and fed myself with self-validations,
with purpose,
with something
to look forward to
and not choke with
constant self-sabotage
and intentional ache
labelling it a fall from grace.

there are days
when i felt kinder,
when i offer myself the
past due apologies
i so long deserve
and not rot on the grave
of self-awareness and name it curse.

there are days
when i felt kinder,
there are days when
i don't wake up wishing
nights to be long
because mornings always
mean "new day, new hope"
because most of the days, love,
there are no such things.
there are only these
old and unforgiving entity living
inside of me.
and every newness is
a strange foreign word
tangled with hows and whys.

there are days when
i tried so hard to be the kindest,
because most of the time, love,
it's just the raw kind of cruel.

— nana, "rainy tuesday and the musings"