During my adolescence,
I made a most magical little discovery
in my bedroom:

A loose floorboard
hiding a cavity about as deep
and almost as wide as my arm.

The discovery awakened in me
something desperate and primal.

For years, I acted like
a beast preparing for hibernation,
squirreling away secrets for my
ever-present winter.

Is that where it all went?

I lived in such emotional squalor
despite my hoarded wealth.
Thirteen was such a bloody year.
Every rainfall was a tropical storm,
every heartbreak a head-on collision.

I prayed but did not believe,
hungered and never ate.
I hated and hate the joy of others.

That old house was gutted this year,
and with it went Pandora’s jar.
I knew it without knowing;
The aim was true,
a knife buried all the way to the hilt.

I have never really known love.
I have known only shadows.
I have known fleeting whims
and flits of fancy,
impure attachments.

No, that’s not quite right.
I have known one love, but
I did not call it love when first I saw it.

I know again what I knew at ten:
That I have the makings of a god.
Life is so circular.

Our bags are packed.
We’ll hit the road in five.
I will find it all again.

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