Some people live inside their head quite a bit more than others. They overthink, they worry about every little thing, they question every moment of everything in life. It can be a daunting way to live. I know, because I am one of them. So…what do you do when you’re one of “those people” and you can’t turn it off? I write, whether any of it makes sense or not. I just write.
pushed off that cliff and laid out in the dust
my eyes feel crusted over with too many
emotions and the ocean, just over there,
is taunting me.
Dirt in my mouth and I’m trying to spit it out
trying to shout into the waning evening
but nothing comes out.
every bone broken
words softly spoken into my ear with love;
the same voice that offered the shove off the cliff above me
the voice of Destiny is bound to gag my attempts to understand
why I can’t stand up
why I can’t fend off the tidal waves of the ocean wanting me,
just over there.
I cannot stand.
I cannot bend.
I cannot send my emotions, tidily boxed up and
bound in string, away for the day.
For the duration of my misery I am only acutely aware of me.
Never a dull moment– and I smirk, despite the pain
as memories march up to me, look down at me,
laying in the dust,
covered in dust,
and present themselves, preening.
I’m screaming again, on the inside — and broken legs,
and broken arms, a broken back:
those parts are twitching with the insanity that is healing me.
I can look up from the dust and see the cliff, and my mouth twists,
my fists stiffen in rage and incomprehension of this
storybook with too many chapters, and too many endings.
The confusion strengthens me; the rage is healing me.
The determination is peeling the useless parts of me away.
Bones are knitting back together and I bare my teeth at the world around me.
I stand despite the breaks.
I walk despite the thorns.
I scream and the entire earth screams back at me.
I grab the beast by the horns and live.
I live and take, despite the urge to give.
I live in spite of me, because of me, despite me,
I fight me and I live.