waltzing

my silence has not been
intentional.
i am not
stemming words of woe and
holding them inside. it is simply
that they do not exist,
my mind
is too tired to create that kind
of vitriol.

i won't cry through my words,
because i do not cry. i will not say
i do not feel this at all,
surrounding you: i do.

i let it wash
over me like a vague sort
of stain, a dye
that,
given enough washings,
begins to fade.
the parts of me i piece together
are undiluted, raw, freshly mined
and freedom is an empty shell

yes, empty. not damaged, nor destroyed,
or any of the adjectives used
to convey this

think pristine:
an empty ballroom, a
thing unused
echoes through an empty room.