by Elsa Nichols
Forgive me for growing silent.
I still care. I always cared. In fact,
I care too much.
Caring for every harmed soul is painful work,
though I know it’s by design
to keep the collected, watchful eyes distracted
from attempting to still our spinning heads.
The news is always breaking. Always painful.
I still care. I’m just choking on grains of sand,
blasting the battered shoreline
where my oversized, guilty tears fall from eyelash tips,
letting gravity sweep them back home into the salty sea
as it comes to meet me where I cannot hide myself,
because the waves don’t care why I’m grieving.
I still care. Though I wish I couldn’t.
Jagged pieces of pulverized seashells jut through
the gritty earth in which I bury myself headfirst,
try to hide my heavy feelings inside,
scratching my sun-freckled skin, burning
when they creep inside the wounds.
A small reminder that this pain exists elsewhere,
is magnified infinitely
in lands whose tongue I’ll never know existed
until the last remaining light has long since faded from eyes
that clouded over, finally protecting them from seeing horrors.
A now-empty body that can no longer feel its pain,
one that never felt my compassion.
I only hope I can be forgiven,
for I grew silent
when I ran out of things to say.
© Elsa Nichols
Born and raised in Eastern North Carolina, Elsa is often found curiously exploring whichever creative outlet catches her eye (and her inspiration). In addition to her poetry, she has been given opportunities to explore modeling, photography, and graphic design, among others. Elsa’s work has been featured in White Noise Zine, The Candid Review, and t’ART Magazine. She can be found on IG @itselsanichols.
Share the love and wonder by making sure to respect the copyrights! Everything we publish belongs to the authors. You can share their texts via the official link. If you quote them, please credit them. Supporting creativity starts with respecting those who create, so we thank you in advance for doing your part!