Saving grace or hell
by lily farrell
This small pouch is wedged deep in my side
its about the size of my fist, and is concocted in my mind
it's a medical mystery, can’t be
probably because it's blackest black, strange abnormal and obscure.
This pouch I carry is a sort of poison
an elixir of pain and suffering
its toxins spread throughout my being and reminds me of mistakes and sin
guilt maybe? or how about anxiety?
it triggers my panic attacks and keeps me awake at night
depression? or perhaps my emotional sobriety.
it never fails to make me cringe, eyes closed, clutching my heart in tight.
I crave the relief when I can finally breathe
to inhale my memories and look towards the future
but it only leaves me shaky with grief
along with the feeling of uneasiness and unsure
I want to claw at it, rip in my flesh and pull it out
I don’t care about the consequences and pain
it’ll distract me, so it seems like the better route
shit. shit. shit.
one. two. three.
The beginning of an attack.
Breath in. Breathe out. relax.
shit. shit. shit.
it’s become a routine, and
breathe in. breath out. count.
it leaves my stomach in a dirty puddle
bruised, aching, yet still able to be in denial
my hands are clammy, with a small tremble
but I manage to look up, laugh and paste on a smile
a cloud of depression has become a cloak of mine, and has a buttery soft comfort
it shells me from the outside and surrounds me with the silent folk
the whispers mist over my ears and tell me to inflict upon these arms that support.
what’s another cut…?
the sweet sting drowns out the tears and hurt.
you’re too weak to do it
the voices cloud my judgment and seize my vision
so that all I see are
to hit the mark is an entire new height
the zenith of my attempts reach a new altitude
so close I can touch the stars in the dark of night
but this isn't the way to go. Too many goodbyes