Locked Guilt
Head bowed. I drag my heavy limbs out of bed. Bathroom door I fling open. My teeth I clean with limp arms, eyes barely open. Day something of lockdown.
I am bored. Of being locked in with the door wide open. Seven day weekend. Isn’t that gold? I hurt of not battling strong winds pulling at my coat, my scarf, my oversized bag. I hurt of being on the inside. Of being isolated with no being to hug, to laugh with, to cry with.
Guilty of feeling guilty for being bored when the brave send to the grave loved ones with no hand to hold, no prayers to send the soul to purgatory, no confessions to appease living and dead or living-dead souls.
Bored. Of all you can consume boxed entertainment. Palm escapism. Thumb euphoria.
The absence of feeling another’s arms around my torso, squeezing hope into my bones, strength into my veins, connection into my spirit, screams at me: ‘you fall here!’ And on my knees I land…afraid to face each day. Unsure if I will be strong enough without a hand to high five when I have beaten the odds. Without a shoulder to pat when they have excelled expectations. A glass to clink in celebration of a birthday, a birth, a rebirth, or all the little things that keep us going.
I stay at home bored. Guilt ridden tears refuse to fall. Selfish I feel. And so on a Thursday, I clap the loudest. My guilt I purge. Those saving life after life cannot wrap their arms around those that give them strength. I clap the loudest to drown my guilt. Of feeling bored. When others fight to keep themselves and others alive.
