HOLES

Burning a hole.

A lit cigarette pushed against my dirty skin would be easier to tolerate than their eyes, judging, loathing, am I frolicking in a terrorist’s ashes?

It began so innocently. But promises come with responsibility. Was it my choice or theirs? Does it even matter? For longer than I anticipated, I played along. Smiled when they asked, “how is it going?”

“It’s good, better than good, it’s great!” Because it is what they wanted to hear. But it was a lie from the start. Never meant to be and my failure is mine but was it ever mine to begin with?

And that is exactly why I lay here hiding, with nowhere to hide; my sheets, my comforter, do not rise to the occasion, cannot cover for me. So I turn to words, pages, flipping, back and forth, none of them stop to meet me. Dropping as soon as I read them, a ball that will not bounce. Does not come back. Cannot be held.

Because, “Sorry,” I was told is not good enough. And the snail can fit under the rock. A bird can fly away. If I dig my hole, one shovel at a time, will it ever be big enough for me?