My mind threw all weapons
like a defeated soldier walking
to their captors with two surrendering
arms and a lowered,
exhausted head.
No more blaming it on
the timing. You and I had
years to fix each other.
The timing was perfect, but
we’re not. We’re far from perfect.
I’m broken and grief-stricken.
I’m PTSDing my way through life.
I’m scared to death, of
loneliness, of old photo albums,
of alleys that has the smell of
thyme, of the past.
I’m scared of myself.
