Hope, again

People speak about hope as if it’s the water with which they can put out their fires.

I did this also, describing hope as a dear friend that would hold my hand and console me during times of need.

I called hope my window, ajar to the possibilities that lie waiting in a brighter future.

But hope has been a cancer, leisurely eating away at the contentment I create after loss.

Today I will stand on a mountaintop and declare hope as an adversary.

Hope has forced me to become a realist.