I admit I still attempt to escape myself.
I’m still neurotic; I’m still obsessive-compulsive. Any sign of passing? Fading?
My attachment issues run deep—I claw at the surface of myself but they cannot be reached.
They lay in their vapid cave; they breathe with heavy pride.
After a wild and arduous chase, in their heaving exhalations, they cannot be seen…they are manifestly lucent, ghostly—haunting from an unknown void in folds of fascia or bone—forming cavities, chasms, gulfs, hollowed biology.
They are aware of my existence, as I am aware of theirs.
It has been known they rely on my core for survival. They rely on me, yet they control me, manipulating my essence, my heartstrings. They pull this way and I follow meekly—they pull that way and I drop to my knees.
They cleverly disguise themselves as commitment issues, but when stripped naked and bare it’s certain—they’re severed attachments, fabled trust; they are the abandoned child who still sits quietly within me, praying for acknowledgment, silently begging for praise.
In the next breath, they are raw with militancy, feeding on the very thing they create within me: irrational fear. Snaking, thrashing, deafening…they are not of me, they are a disconnect…constructing an entire entity of its own autonomy, assembling a mess of internal famine.
They fester inside of me like parasitic hungers stalking stray oxytocin molecules…feasting on the love hormone that surges and swirls through my webbed frame.
They sabotage all connections, all external bonds—in a fit of fury, of resentment, suspicion and detachment.
I lash, I bellow, I weep, I lose control; I am discarded, vacant.
In the realization of my own negligence, I find a deep-rooted fear of betrayal and deceit…love lost and love counterfeit. It slips from me…and in this place. I am comfortable. I am at ease: residual salt, sticky, scarlet cheeks…cracks form valleys and canyons at the pout of my lip.
I am thirsty. I live in this place…the land between practicality and avoidance. While it may be my own personal hell, I have come to know it as home and I settle in with giggles and a fleeting sense of hope.
I love—I love so deeply it aches. The ache has a welcomed tinge of belonging and the deep desire of a new home.
To reach the axis of my discontent, I reverse engineer. Beneath the density I find wrinkles of panic in my own fabric; the weaving was done in haste and loose threads of dread and a snag of lunacy can be found at my corners. It is a quilt, unfinished, but in all its flawed and glorious beauty,
I find myself…perhaps a small shrewd pattern in an off-center square…washed in lukewarm fluids.
I am victoriously visible in morning shadows, fluffed against sighing bodies.
I am nothing in the wake of the moon. Even as it hangs swollen and ripe making a slow decent into its cradled abyss, I am merely here to keep others warm.
Dawn bursts forth. It pulls at me, one lover tugging at the edge of another. It leaves me torn yet humbled…As they rise from their slumber, I catch a glimpse of what it must be like to feel whole, unbroken. I see them come and go, ebb and flow, ignite and glow.
Phobic. I am phobic, but that is I—that is who I am and whom I came to be and that is all right.
That is all right with me.
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Photo: Daniela Vladimirova
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