Moving On

Once I was done pointing fingers,

My reflection lost its devil’s horns.

The pain still floats and lingers,

But my contract with death is torn.

Once I was done blaming strangers,

Color seeped back into my eyes.

I thought I was a lone ranger,

But fate gave me a free second try.

And once I was done complaining,

My bones found a place they fit.

No, I am not a saint in training,

But I count blessings more than I admit.

-Jackie