Caitlin Nicholson

there isn’t much 
to look forward to

and if i sit very still 
and pick at the dirt beneath my nails

there isn’t much 
to look back on, either.

only the small dead things:

a hand once held 
a door once opened
a voice that spoke sweetly to me

then 

severed. 

how strange 
to cut a thing away
and find no scar.

if it was real
it would have stayed. 

wouldn’t it?

the things that once thrilled me
have gone dull at the edges,

their sharp little teeth
filed down by time. 

nostalgia

then longing 

then 

mourning. 

this morning 
i wore my determination 
like a clean white shirt.

by evening 
it was stained through. 

tomorrow
i’ll wear it again.

again.

again.

again. 

and somehow
i am here. 

before, 
when i lost my way,

i only had to look west 

to catch my bearings.

the ocean, 

gray mouth
churning. 

but it doesn’t open for me anymore.

and here

the valley whispers.

the hills lean closer.

the trees hold their breath. 

and the cicadas 

scream

as if something underneath
the earth

is trying
to get out.

i claw at the earth
until dirt packs 
beneath my nails.

i wonder 
if it is me.