The Quiet Violence of Letting Go

AnnMarie

I have not known a storm so still as the one that lives within me—
a hush that trembles, a silence that sloughs.
To rid oneself of the unneeded is not a tidy thing.
It is not a drawer emptied, nor a shelf made bare.
It is a skin peeled back,
a breath held too long,
a hymn sung in the key of ache.

I have parted with objects that once knew my hands—
plates that bore the weight of dinners unspoken,
cups that held the tea of apology.
They do not cry when they go,
but I do.

The soul, when it sheds, does not do so politely.
It rends.
It rattles.
It remembers.

And yet—
there is a holiness in the heap.
A sanctity in the scatter.
The broken tower does not mourn its fall.
It offers its stones to the garden.

I am not lazy.
I am not cruel.
I am not undone.

I am becoming.

And if my skin must slough,
let it do so in moonlight.
Let it fall like petals.
Let it be the mulch of my next blooming.