Anatomy of Solitude

Marielle Songy

My head is a tin can,
bitter and hollow with
envy- emerald green and
rotting, dragging flies to
its wake.

My chest is an empty shell,
laborious breathing as I try
to comprehend the gravity
of a dead winter dripping in
failed possibility.

My eyes are light switches
flashing off and on- breaking
the depth of the darkness
with quiet stares, recording
memory like a ledger.

My heart is a hollow drum
keeping time in a delicate
minuscule of an ant crawling
across the leaf of an oak tree
in the middle of autumn.

My lungs are accordions
playing a gentle cacophony
that wills me to wake each
morning with the sunrise and
dew on unmowed grass.

My gut is a bowl overflowing
with doubtful questions
raised in rage, regret, and
everlasting mournfulness
hanging heavy.

My hands are tidal waves
pushing away evil entities,
pulling in goodness with the tide-
hope crashing on the shore in
a delicate symphony.