Change

Its shadow arrives
before its name,
never announcing its presence
or intentions.

It comes to collect
what can’t be kept.

No apologies are offered.
It stands silently
at the door.

It does not knock,
simply steps in,
rearranging the furniture
before I can hide
the relics of my life.

I was someone—
before the dying began.

I tell myself it will pass,
that if I am still enough
it will not see me
trembling in the shadows,
a foreigner in this land,
desperately clinging to
the very things
that could release me.

I try to negotiate,
to protect my sanctum,
but it will not be bargained with
or wait for me to feel ready.

It takes me by the shoulders,
turns me toward the horizon,
and whispers the truth:

You cannot stay here.

My breath feels strange
in this chest,
like air that was never mine.

But my feet move,
not because I am fearless,
but because the ground beneath me
will no longer hold my weight.

It is the undertaker—
and the midwife.

It is the hand
pulling me from the wreckage,
the tide that washes me ashore.

When it is done with me,
I will not be the same—
nor will I wish to be.