Shed

I walk to the hilltops

and greet the coming of dawn

with open eyes, palms facing the sky,

held breath, hair tussled

by the wind,

and with open eyes.

 

My fingers turn crooked,

turn into rakes,

and I dig them into my skin,

peeling away at the layers of me

as I walk forward towards

the coming light.

 

I tear off from me the smoke

and the grime and the smog

that sticks to my flesh.

 

I rip from my belly

the tiredness of the commute;

the waiting in trains and taxi cabs,

 

and the phone calls to customer

service representatives

and the angry words that come with it;

 

the rush and the panic

of the impending deadline

and the hours spent huddled

 

in front of my computer

typing a whirlwind of letters,

forming words, then sentences,

 

complete thoughts, comparisons,

turning abstract ideas

into tangible forms that can be defined,

 

contained, held, and ripped apart,

tossed aside, picked up again,

and then held closely to the chest.

 

I tear away from my nape

that ache and pain

that comes from anticipation —

 

eyes on the phone, waiting,

counting minutes, waiting,

pondering on the possibilities

 

and the tapping of feet

with the rhythm of anxiousness,

and waiting for that which does not come.

 

I leave behind my shaved head,

unanswered friend requests on Facebook,

the un-retweeted tweets,

 

unfinished glasses of rum coke,

unused foreign currency,

and unfulfilled promises over e-mails.

 

I leave a trail of all of last year

behind me; a pathway

three hundred sixty-five days long.

 

Stripped of the year that was,

I stand naked, covered in the scabs

from the shedding, renewed,

almost new born,

almost hopeful,

almost innocent,

almost pure.

 

I am washed in light.

The sun has risen.

Now it begins again,

dressing myself again,

one day at a time.

 

 

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