• Erin Grace Thomson


By Erin Grace Thomson

coming home means opening an old, yet reborn t r a u m a—

One I willingly pushed away to study the classics

—I woke up in a manic state, and then remembered him—

Happy memories, tainting a toxic dreamscape—

home is where I rediscovered my heartbreak,

Bound by the melancholy of Hades cold stare

as I seemed to be one of the lost—drunken souls;

memories of summer became a hallucination, I questioned Hades,

asking if he ever knew of such heartbreak—

but he fell silent at my question, so instead, I witnessed t r a u m a from afar.

I have seen myself fall ill at his possible presence

and have grown weary of writing about him, but I find myself constantly being torn apart

like a fallen soldier—

because of my resistance to accept my own defeat: that there is more to my soul than a broken heart—

there is no point to write if it is not to change the soul.

And so I will stare into the fire and eradicate every memory.

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