maybe the mop

maybe the mop?

there’s soot everywhere 

it’s under my nails 

and under my soul 

where I shoved 

that self I swore to punish 

maybe the mop? 

as a place 

to start 

cleaning up the ground 

that, frankly, 

it’s any wonder 

I’m not already 6 feet under  

yet alas

here I stand 

with two feet upon it 

the decay is there

not in the soil 

but in my soul 

deep within the darkness 

of my inner decimation. 

maybe the mop? 

but what about the rubble

the shards 

the fragments 

the splinters of 

a contempted 

and contorted 

kid? 

I consider a broom 

to gather the fragments 

of this detested self 

but the broom was 

broken from the blast

incinerated in the flaming 

hatred that had 

consumed this place 

with such unrelenting rage 

the vacuum? 

Ha! 

someone tell me 

please 

what good does 

tidying up

a home 

already on fire do? 

like mopping 

up after a tsunami

futility 

is a feeling 

that accompanies 

the task of cleaning up

the mess of such 

coordinated 

and contemplated 

self annihilation 

this mess 

that overwhelms 

as its devastation 

extends far beyond 

what I can comprehend. 

and my grief 

is made nauseous 

by the distinct awareness 

it never had to be this way 

and yet it is 

like some kind 

of genetic disorder 

this mess 

was inherited 

nothing I asked for 

or wanted 

but nevertheless 

mine

given to me like 

a terminal diagnosis: 

definitively determining 

the 

the nature of 

my life 

that remains,

the work forever 

before me. 

I survey the 

epicenter 

of my suffering, 

stunned that 

anything remains

at all –

someone

tell me 

please:

is there meaning 

to the mopping?