It Shouldn't Be This Dark at 6:30

by Mychal Hope

How long do I have to fake it

Before I make it?

I feel as if my hearts been 

Punctured,

Wounded,

Bound,

And constricted

By my collarbones and ribs

As my body cascades into itself.

Excruciatingly sheltered 

From the danger the dark drags with it.

I look for people,

But they’re not where I left them.

Only puddles where our feet had been.

I miss you, I say to the dirty water.

Had you been clear once? I ask.

I can’t remember, it replies. 

Maybe when the sun comes out,

Maybe when the air doesn’t cut

So bitterly through my skin.

Sharp and unfriendly,

Rotten leftovers 

From the sugar sticky air of summer.

Maybe when the world stops 

Looking like splotches of paint smeared

Across ripped canvas, ugly and diluted.

Maybe when I stop trying to see the world

In the same colors

I did when I was younger. 

But I grew up in a yellow house,

Color year round. 

Sunshine in the winter,

Bright when it was raining. 

Lights on,

Inside home baked.

We danced barefoot in the street

When the world went black.

Our entire life sheltered and safe,

A warmth that seeped into my veins,

Blanketing the storm.

Shorts on in January,

I had never been cold before.

Old room, old house, old bones,

Old children. 

Aging and separating

And halving ourselves.

Creaky joints and tired eyes

Waiting for it all to come back.

What if it never does?

What if it’s always dark

And you never come home

And I never feel like I’m home

And you can’t find me.

My friend,

We no longer look the same.

Should I thank the world for the rain?

I will if you want me to.