Some days the act of breathing seems almost impossible. The weight of my choices sits heavy in the pit of my throat and I am pulled into the roots of suffering. I wear my defeat like skin. The room is too warm and my hands feel numb. I just want to drown, to vanish, disintegrate into ash. I don’t remember getting old, but my body bears the signs of decades of abuse. How can you change when you can’t even stand, when your feet are too weak to hold the mess you’ve made?
In a dream, I shed my skin and stepped into a body I could love. I looked at a reflection that wasn’t lined with cruelty, pock-marked with despair. I had a new name and felt weightless. Then I woke up.
I am forgetting how to pull the words from my throat, forgetting why I even try. I am fading into a person I never wanted to be, the one I hated and feared and always knew I would become. My thoughts feel bruised. How is it I have never recovered from being left alone? I stood still with a bottle of booze and my legs became the earth and my heart broke into pieces. I watched the wind swallow my voice.
I call myself a writer, but it is a lie. I call myself a person, but I am hollow. I call myself a mistake and I know that finally I have uncovered the truth.