I wept in the wee hours,
Crushed under the weight of my failures,
Debilitated by the scope of my own expectations dashed,
But unexpected were the fingers that brushed my cheek,
Wiping away my weeping,
Unexpected was the hushed tone,
The testimony of accolades,
Or dismissed in the grand scheme,
Of things overshadowed by,
The mothering, the lovering, the friendships and sagedom.
Unexpected were the arms that enfolded misery,
In an attempt to stay my sorrow,
Or the lips that brushed mine,
By way of comfort.
Or the pointing out,
That I had blocked out my shine,
Trying to kill myself to meet my expectations.
In response to The Sandbox Writing Challenge.