Soliloquies for the Reborn
By M. Allshouse
If I had been born from Love,
I’d speak only in heartfelt soliloquies.
Words wrapped in warmth that didn’t bear this ache.
Sweet nothings not laced with longing—
a deep-seated understanding
of what it means to want—
and not receive.
If I had been born from Contentment,
I’d speak only in haikus—
soft and smooth,
a cadence wrapped in ease and comfort.
Sighs that reverberate satisfaction,
a sleepy disposition
with no urgency to change—
forever the same.
I can almost imagine if I’d been born from Happiness:
no words to find between laughter and smiles.
I’d be willing to stay on this earth more than a while,
wrapped in pleasant memories,
tucked in with dreams of bright tomorrows—
ones that paint the sky in sunshine
and spring rainbows for my eyes.
But I have been born many times—
each reincarnation
a new facet of my existence.
I had been born of Longing,
speaking only in solitary monologue.
Words wrapped in ice
that shattered with ache.
Laments laced with loneliness,
a deep-seated understanding
of what it means to want—
and never receive.
I was birthed by a state of Discontent,
weeping at an unseen God in prayers
brash and broken.
Cries that reeked of discomfort and hardship,
screams that were haunting echoes of displeasure.
A disposition akin to insomnia—
anxiety-riddled,
begging for change.
And the most unfortunate reincarnation
my soul ever withstood
was being born a child of Anguish.
No laughter to be had here—
only the hollow sound
of my soul being torn apart.
Ideations of sacrificing all that I am
for the possibility of a better tomorrow.
Trauma-bound memories
like a mobile above my head,
tucked in with nightmares of the past—
ones that paint skies dark blues
and flash lightning in my eyes.
See, I have been reborn many times.
Each existence
worse than the last.
I was never meant for kind.
These reincarnations—
penance for my past.