The rot beneath the hope (a conversational poem in three voices.)

Have you seen it?
The darkness behind the eyes.
Not the kind born of sleep
but the kind that stares back.
Where there was once laughter
there is only the grinding of teeth.
Where fire once lived
only smoke claws at the lungs.

The light doesn't vanish all at once.
It begs.
It flickers.
It lies still.
And in the end
there is only hatred.
Raw. Aimless. Endless.
For them.
For you.
For me.

They told me,
"If you can see the dark, there is still light."
A child's lie, warm and bloodless.
"Maybe your hatred is the rot of hope."
As if that made it noble.
As if I hadn’t already
carved that rot out
and fed it to the flies.

But rot means something once lived.
And that is supposed to comfort me.

I have seen the bones beneath the skin.
Heard the smiles crack.
Felt the way love festers
when it's left too long in silence.
I have sat with the shadows.
Not beside me
inside me.
Knocking against the ribs.
Pacing behind the eyes.

All I see now is darkness.
Where love once bloomed
the petals have become blades.
Where hope once stirred
a sour wind whispers,
"No one is coming. No one ever was."

And I find myself smiling.
Not from joy
but from the freedom of having nothing left to lose.

Let them call it madness.
Let them call it grief.
Let them call it anything they want.
I call it clarity.