That Stubborn Hope

In moments of despair, my hope is not that thing with feathers. That sort of hope is far too buoyant, too high, too perky to be seen or heard.

My hope is that thing with scales. A thing with tiny sharp teeth and snakelike eyes. Curved claws and stinky goo oozing from its orifices.

It wriggles and dives into the murky depths. Demons rip off its scales but it does not slow. A slimy bloody trail pulses in its wake.

Hope is that disgusting thing I don’t even want to touch.

I won’t move a finger in pursuit. No, I wallow in sadness with the monsters of my mind. Hollow and desperate, they are more my type.

I let the black mud clog my pores, drag me down

Down, down

Silt so deep, so fine, all around, I may never land

Only drift, lost forever in the dark.

But teeth nip my ankle. Claws rip the fabric of my sleeve. A pungent tail slaps my neck. Slitted pupils widen, round and dark. No longer snake eyes, but dog eyes.

Strangely similar to those of the furry beast by my side, trying to remind me that it’s time for a walk, for dinner, for play.

Hope slithers past—and stops. Twists its head toward me. Its dripping scales reflect silt but also sky. Black to blue.

Hope’s sharp odor mellows into a balm. Moist earth and grass.

We exchange no words. But clearly, it wants me to follow. It won’t move, that stubborn hope, until I do, too.

My blood quickens. That scaly thing needs me. I tug a foot from the muck. It slides back almost as deep as before, yet I trudge onward.

For as much as my hope needs me to exist, I need it more.