When we prosper, we prosper from here to somewhere
without a shadow of closure, a ring of doubt.
It surrounds us, envelopes us in wisdom we cannot
quite catch-the wisdom of wanting something that is beyond
the wisdom that comes with the knowledge of it.
We await each day, thinking as it comes,
questioning the realm of this or that, trying to figure out
who we were before.
Even if I had told you before, you would not have listened,
you would have thought it was not a good idea.
I told you it would end up like this, you ignoring me
my entire life, me trying to find my way through the void,
the darkness, the endlessness of a dark room.
I am not Sylvia Plath. I am not a sick fiend, nor a liar,
just a woman who is trying to be who I am.
It is hard. The walking is hard, the fighting is hard,
harder than you can imagine, especially when no one knows
it’s you, when everyone fears you are missing.
I am not missing. I am at home, watching the days go by,
looking at the world outside a window that does not
belong to me. It belongs to a book. A strand of knowledge.
And your reflection.