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poetry

Sit with it

I am afraid of the gray
Of the many shades of it
Of that space between black and white
Of the absence of certainty

“Sit with it.”
She tells me
As if those three words
Could stay, will stay
The ants that invade my viscera
And nibble at the edges of my mind

I don’t like the gray
The murkiness of it;
Its unfathomable depths
I am not comfortable with not knowing
I am not comfortable with being unsettled

“Sit with it”
She reminds me
As if the repetition
The waltz
Will distract me from the unceasing currents
Which toss me to and fro under my covers
And steal the sleep from my sleep

My feelings remain in flux
My emotions just out of reach
I am drowning in the gray
I am at the mercy of the gray
I am weak; I am powerless; I am tormented
I am losing the definition of my edges
I am becoming the gray

“Sit with it”
She begs me
As if time will reveal a truth
As if patience will still my soul
As if buried in the gray, in all it’s hues and tints

Will unmake the destruction I have caused with my hands
Will heal the tears I have made in my own universe
Will reseal that curtain

And pull blood from this stone.

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About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.

Discussion

4 thoughts on “Sit with it

  1. Really impressive work. Wonderful poetry.

    Posted by lifeofawillow | 27 January 2014, 0142 EDT

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  1. Pingback: A little night reading | "Raw" She Said - 19 February 2014

  2. Pingback: It’s not about you | "Raw" She Said - 16 September 2016

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

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