low point

Struggling to break out of the cocoon I’ve made for myself

Three years have built up these walls – my weakness

Tempting Grandpa’s disease and the rest

The smoke

The bottle

The Oblivion

One who should be grown it is still so tiny and weak inside

Caving and cracking

Putting aside the old ways

All my friends tell me not to bother – they do not perceive my illness

Little hands that used to reach for me have grown strong – perhaps stronger than I am

This giant brain of no use against these bonds

Painting the mask over the lines and angles on my face that are new to me – accented by the tears that flow more freely now

Without the blunting

The thing that I am wishing for but putting aside like one packs away an old glove

Worn and familiar, touching the edges even as she places it in the box

Wishing she could wear it again the way she used to but knowing that for her it has forever changed

The morning routine now soul-less or salted with tears torn from aching eyes

Now feeling each insult and blow from an unfriendly world.

Eyes that sneak to the edge of the interstate for some quick mercy hidden in a light pole

A guard rail.

A semi.

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