I’m balancing on a razor’s edge.
Not certain I will make it to the finish line.
Each time I get back to balance
deadly winds tip the scales
of time.
Please, don’t.
Don’t talk to me about God.
He’s the one that sent the breeze…
My language dries up.
Arthritis in my knees and knuckles flex.
Reminding me of my mortality.
Beautiful blades pop up in my imagining.
Wanting to feel some sort of control.
I watch me, watch me turn food into a weapon.
A drug.
A punishment
For being alive.
I pray without ceasing.
I pray in my sleep.
I pray in my daydreams.
I pray as I weep.
I don’t think I have the wherewithal to survive me.
I feel bad about it all.
My mistakes feel tragic.
Unrecoverable.
Peoples words, daggers.
In my eyes.
Throat.
Chest.
I feel so alone.
I feel like I imagine how Notzake felt.
So very, very alone…
I can’t even articulate the pain to my therapist. I have to wait until words remember they are my friends.
They are my only North Star.
To process.
Loss.
Grief.
Offense.
I can feel me spiraling
downward into an dark &
silent pit of self-hate.
It’s like walking on the edge of a razor.
With each step my feet bleed.
The more weight, the deeper the incision.
Stand still or move forward?
Decisions.
Decisions.
Decision.
I don’t know right now.
So I write.
I tend to Happy.
I eat donuts.
I let the sugar turn
to alcohol
to comfort me.
It’s the safest way to hurt myself.
And keep me alive.
By: Dr. Venus Opal Reese
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