Falling Slowly

how can i ever be forgiven

somewhere there is a cat in a jar. floating in formaldehyde. eyes never opened. see through skin and darkened spine. life is so meaningless to a kitten

Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? Was I groomed? why does my chest hurt like this? Why can’t I get a breath full of air? Was I groomed?

I don’t want to consider how vast and complicated the world and people truly are. I just want to feel small -- small enough so that I can be held.

I understand that I hurt all the time and that it will lessen and deepen with time and age. I understand that there is no true reason for the hurt I experience; for the way even my fingers ache pulling back the scalp to access my brain. I do not understand why I feel so trapped by these realities. I’m the only one who can save me, but I’m so spent existing within the cage that dreaming on grace and joy within it seems impossible.

Waiting for Godot is only a play with a meaning without Godot. If Godot, enters the stage, the play is over and the seemingly meaninglessness of the play is truly proven meaningless. They wait. We wait. They watch. We watch. In liminal silence and anticipation for nothing. Once nothing arrives, nothing is over. Who am I to look for Godot, when meaning hangs so delicately. Fragile. Without meaning I am with meaning. To survive for no one’s sake.