The Account

by jesssouthwood

Iris died and I was sad.
Sad is too small a word
For the whole world
Going away
And coming back again
Slightly rearranged
Like the sofa
Had moved
A fraction
And I kept
Banging my shins
Until I learned
To walk around it.
I was sad and yet
My ability to
Navigate
The furniture
Was praised
And my limbs
Were deemed
More beautiful
For the bruises.

But then I kicked
The chairs over
Upended the tables
Pulled down the curtains
Smashed the picture frames
And stumbled around
My broken possessions
Feet full of splinters
Hands full of glass
Crying salt into my wounds
Then scratching hard
At the itchy healing of them.
This was not so admired.

When there is no blame,
Grace is easier to come by
Than when you must
Hold yourself to account
For the scars you bear.
To find yourself
Lovely again
Does not come quickly
And neither should it.
When shame and longing
Adorn your walls
Yearning cluttering every surface
You cannot happily find room for other ornament