The Poetry Marathon

They — the ubiquitous, omnipresent they —

Told me
Loudly, and in no uncertain terms
That I was not sad.
That I was better off, really
(so much better off, honey, really).

They — the all-knowing, all-seeing they —

Told me
Frequently, so that I wouldn’t (couldn’t ever) forget
That I was chosen.
That it was for the best, really
(so much better off, don’t be ungrateful, really).

They — the powers-that-be they —

Told me
How I felt
How I didn’t feel
How I was allowed to feel
(I’m better off, I won’t be ungrateful, really.)

They
Told me.

But I am no longer a child
And I will no longer be hushed
I will whisper it into the dark
Until someday

I
Will tell

Them.

And it was glorious while it lasted, she thought:

The honest, earthy smell of the sheets the mornings after,

The way her fears could disperse on the breeze of his smile.

Eventually, as these things happen,

It was lost in a fire of temper and a wave of hot, bitter tears —

And she wondered if she would ever again

Have a love so elemental.