The Other Side

by Kim Holden

I’m riddled with it—a series of open, infected, invisible wounds.

I need to quiet my thoughts, not exacerbate them with stillness and silence.

I listen to her eyes. And I decipher the truth between them.

Guilty that maybe I don’t feel guilty enough. You name it, I feel guilty about it. Guilt and me, we’re conjoined. One. When it isn’t stabbing me, I drag it around like a ball and chain.

Music is fleeting; it’s chance. So when I hear a good song, it feels like fate because it can’t be planned or predicted. Like the universe has turned it on to flirt with me, to blindfold my dark thoughts