Broken

I am aware that I am unkind.
It does not matter,
there is no heart in here to reach.
Like a wave, I cannot help
but to slam against the cliffs,
as if I am asking
if erosion
can return a heart that is missing?

I feel like a hearth
without a home.
A pilgrimage without
a destination.
Reverence
without a reason.
How do I feel so
full
while starving?

I am aware that I am not so much as lost
as just refusing to go the right way.
The first time I realized this
I cried tears of hot rage
at the rivers edge
alone, as always.
Clothed only in
molten tears and frigid dreams.
How do I always end up here?
Like a fever, I cannot help
but breaking in the end.

I feel like a
secret
without a source.
A destination
that no one visits.
A shrine that
no one remembers.
How do I feel so
full
while starving?

I am aware that I am a sea
without a shore.
Like a wave, I cannot help
but spill across the floor,
in sheets,
like a shroud.
Or an excuse.

Like a fever, I cannot help
but breaking in the end.
It is only the beginning,
and I hear that
once broken,
a new heart can grow
from the wasteland.

Hunter Hall

Hunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.