Curious feelings of what ifs and who’s next; will they be enough to calm my expectations if they’re mostly being met? It’s a ruse, always has been, and now as I ponder who I should be to those I’m charged with, to myself, I’m left with more questions, concerned at the state I’m in, numb while acting out.
Anger a very real friend, resentment boring its way to my deep crevices, yet as most know, a meager shield for deep hurt. I’m afraid of cracks being fully revealed in a world where being normal is seen as the standard, cool as a cucumber, laid back and relaxed; seems like foreign theory to me, wound tight with anxiety, finding brief solace in abandon, then feeling the high leave as fast as it came.
Seems I’m the one to blame, just as Sunday School taught me, original sin and confessions needed for redemption, supplication to a being, hoped for forgiveness, just to sin all over again; the destructive cycle of self-abuse and penance.
More than penitent, I’m now just ambivalent, ready to spew what comes forth from my lips, knowing the words were formed long ago, like vast canyons created through violent earthquakes. The blood in my veins like life giving water, roaring through parts undiscovered, and now I believe it would take a skilled survivalist to endure me.
Emily Cloward © 2018