Trinity Poem by Ezio Olubelleau

Five long, gruesome holidays—
not a moment spared for tending my own.
I'd plow through pillows, comb down meadows,
before I'd ever call this tired face my home.

And still, when the seasons circle me—
I move on muscle, boiling down to numb.
I patch the dishes, grant small wishes,
hoping one routine might make me feel like someone.

And most nights, when silence settles in—
I lay my bones like timber, feeling nothing.
I sort through heartache, fold whatj won't break,
trying not to fear the life I call my own.

And by morning, when habit carries me—
I rise because the hours pull me on.
I wash the counters, tame small disasters,
trying to belong to days that feel half‑worn.

Five long, gruesome holidays—
not a moment spared for tending my own.