Melancholy Misfire

I have mistaken a season of melancholy for eternity.

I think we all have.

Sometimes the cognitive distortions have tricks,

and I don’t want the smoke,

so I let them devour me whole.

I’ll sit too long beside the wound.

Call it destiny, prophecy, written in stone.

I call it myself

when I know I’m something far older, far larger than it.

Because suffering can become familiar.

And familiarity has a dangerous way

of dressing itself up as truth.

But don’t worry, my child,

the soul is migratory.

Even grief eventually changes rooms.

Even the darkest thought

grows tired of hearing its own name.