What was
that feeling? The one that
scared me, fluttered
under my ribs
and all along my spine
to finally
settle, a rock in the pit
of my stomach?

That feeling called Hope?
Sounds familiar.
Hope. I think
I've had this feeling
before,
though I'm not sure.
(If so, then
it was a long time ago.)

I try the word out
on my lips
and it feels foreign,
uncomfortable.
Hope.
I draw the word out
and fully taste it.
H o p e .
I whisper it next and it
sounds frail
as dry leaves in the dark.
Why does it scare me
so much?

My mouth forms an O.
Even the word itself
says “Oh”
as if bitterly
disappointed.
I don't think I have
the guts
to trust it,

being so brittle,
so frail, so breakable
myself.
But every now and then
I let down my guard
mistakenly,
to feel it
coming through

like sunlight
shining in the blinds,
bright
and beautiful,
only to find it
gone
the following morning,
the sky clouded over.

Which is the reason
I don't dare hope
for anything.