I read once
that your life belongs to
those who love you.
If that were true
then why am I
the only one to feel
the burden
of its weight?
I've gone day to day,
year to year;
sometimes dragging
life behind
as if it's
a
grand
piano
I
pull
uphill.
Some days life's trouble
comes in care packages
heavy like stone
but wrapped
in brightly colored paper;
I trudge through my day
with this box
of worry
weighting me
down
making
every
daily
step
harder
than it's been before.
There are nights
I lie in bed,
eyes wide open,
peering into darkness
searching for answers.
It's hard to sleep
with a brink of uncertainty
heavy on my chest.
It's hard to breathe
when doubts of tomorrow
suffocate you.
Sometimes I have enough courage
to escape.
I sit up,
quick,
with the sudden feeling
that the room is too small.
I leave,
in a hurry,
find the nearest mall.
Cover my worry tracks
with the necessity
of an new something.
The weight of
a shopping bag
feels good in my hands;
immediate,
material,
gratification;
just what I needed.
Then there are times when everything
becomes a buzz, constant
and unrelenting.
In less than an hour,
I'll
fall
from a yellow mania,
to a red temper,
and straight
into the
smoldering black.
A black that can burn your skin
and freeze your heart.
From this dark place
my trembling hand
reaches out
for a shiny object,
so sharp.
I turn my arm, palm up;
heartbeat heavy and
slow in my ears.
Ever so lightly,
I cut.
Not too deep;
enough for it to bleed
and sting.
And then another,
and another,
and another.
The release is euphoric.
To watch the red bubble up,
slowly, but surely.
To feel a physical pain
that gives color
to a black depression.
I drop my sharp friend,
press a tissue to my wrist,
feel the bite,
lay
back
and let
the pain
carry me
away.
A true escape,
from life.
