I Think I’m Ready

‎When the pale guest knocks, let the bolt slide back;
‎tell him I have been waiting in the shadows.
‎If he asks what I sought in the light,
‎tell him I only ever wanted less.
‎
‎Less of the static, the storm inside the skull,
‎less of the pretense that every wound
‎carries the weight of a lesson.
‎I am tired of justifying a seat at a table
‎in a room I never asked to enter.
‎
‎And if he wonders why the fire is low,
‎tell him that life took its fill,
‎it reached inside and scooped the marrow,
‎wringing me like linen until the well ran dry.
‎The ledger is clear; the vessel is empty.
‎Tell him I am ready to be still.

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