broken (little private terrors)

i lie inside
supine
pining
sunshine flooding through the blinds

wind gusts shaking the trees and house
insistent as loneliness
pounding its fists
against these fixtures

supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds

little private terrors
and the death of who i was
this is what i hear and see
in the wind gusts and blinding light

because a week before
i lay in the road
broken and bloodied
trying to stand as this whole new me

and then each morning after
i wake against pain and stiffness
and do not know yet this resurrection
cannot imagine this new life

a mangled little finger
a fractured hip
and all this talk of healing
as if healing is some kind of regaining

supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds

terrified of everything and everyone
because i alone know all
my sins of love
that temper my bones under my frail flesh

i cannot tell anyone everything
i cannot tell everyone anything that matters
because nothing is sacred or permanent
except knowing you warm and close

despite my premature decrepitude
spawned gradually and then all at once
you are unwavering in these storms
resuscitating me broken

supine
pining
i lie
inside
sunshine flooding through the blinds

—P.L. Thomas

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