I have a bone to pick
I would have been blissfully unaware
of my dissatisfaction
but you opened the jar.
The air is thick with dust
and fragments of what flew
out of the jar on the day
that you just couldn’t
stop your curiosity
I can’t help but notice
the life I wanted
is like a patch of darkness
in an eye that cannot stay still
to let me take a photo.
And hope remained so conveniently
inside the jar,
as if to pretend
that it’s doing me a favour.
Hope didn’t escape with the fear
the shame, the evil, the blame.
So all I have left to hold on to
is the hope for something else.
Why was it fraternizing
with the darkness before you set them free?
You closed the jar
just in time to contain it.
But hope is useless without ability.
Hope invites me to write something new
but the dust has paralysed my fingers.
And so rather than living in
the bliss of ignorance,
I now am cursed by hope