How do I lock my brain in?
How do I clear the fog,
curb the cravings,
keep my pens from dying?
I scream.
I go for runs.
I write.
I pillage the caverns of my body,
where cob-webbed thoughts gather
and forgotten corpses of grief reek.
It’s still not enough.
I have a hangnail,
and when I pull at it
it peels back all of my skin to the bone.
But it still doesn’t reach my soul.
Point me to what will.
So I can go in
starving
and skinless
and hopeful.
Point me to what will.
- r.
Rhy, the soul in this poem isn’t asking to be rescued. It’s asking if there is still something in this world capable of reaching it. “Point me to what will” is one of the bravest endings I’ve read in a long time.