Scenes of My Soul

Life and trauma are synonymous.

I am told to expose my heart;
bear it like sticky peanut butter
to be gobbled up, devoured,
then spit out and rejected only
to be born again.

Why does the soul insist,
the core implore,
toward harmony within throes of pain?

Why now do I stretch my hand, palm out,
towards your essence, towards those eyes,
like laser swords, cutting my flesh,
burning my soul? 

Please scatter the ashes under my rug
so tomorrow's children will have
at least one monument
to mourn.