Hope of the Hopeless

Maybe it was the black mold that killed me. The kind that stares at you from the bathroom walls or perhaps it was the broken sink, Exposed at the seams, inviting in bugs that crawled into my dreams while feasting on my Flesh. Though it could have been the germ infested kitchen. The one with shit water Spouting from the sink like a blue whale’s blowhole that has me washing my hands as vigorously as a germophobic. I suppose it also could have been the way the house was stuffed with things like it was ready to burst at its not so carefully put together edges that made me feel claustrophobic since there was barely room to breathe. It could have also been the recalled truck, the one my dad never thought to fix. Perhaps the air bag killed me when it Spontaneously activated, Breaking my sternum, allowing my insides to bleed. But I think it was the Hopelessness that killed me. The kind of hopelessness One feels when Trying to dig a hole in mud, seeing a break in the surface Gives you hope, so you continue digging even though the hole refills Faster than you can dig it. Soon You tire and stop to ponder why there is no progress. then your spirit sinks as you realize it’s something that cannot be done. Slowly you lay back into the mud and Let it swallow you whole. yes, it was the hope filled hopelessness that killed me. That small whisper of, “Maybe things will change.”