Making My Bed



I look at the grid lines on my legs and I find i become more and more divided.  Logical versus emotional.  My friends tell me time and time again that I have a value.  Yet the view from the emotional border sees a zero.  My logical county thinks,  “So what?  Are you just a number?”

In this ward, I think that sometimes others look at my legs and wonder if I carved crosses on purpose.  Others probably try to fathom why there are cuts at all.  For my part,  I’m still nauseous thinking about how close I got to my wrists.

For the record, if anyone is reading, they aren’t crosses.  They aren’t ancient symbols   They’re road signs.  Traveling up and over tendons, across veins and eeking slowly towards arteries, plump and waiting.  This is not the road trip that I planned on.

Yet I’m not surprised that I took this trip.  I’m not religious or prophetic, but to find myself here, now – surrounded by vast and different pain is not a shock or surprise.  An inevitable sojourn.

I am divided.  One half east.  On half west.  Unable to pick a direction, I stall.

If my body is a map, I want to cut it up again.  This time without the blade.  Without the pills.  Without the tub and the bourbon.   Rezone and reorganize the pieces.  Mix logic and emotion and maybe head back in the right direction.

I want my value to be enough for me.   For me.  To keep me inspired.  I want to travel in every possible form without sacrificing my body.


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