The floor has fallen out from under me more times than I can recall. I have hit rock bottom and found it goes deeper still. Deeper I have plummeted, deeper, deeper. I have drowned and died again and again, sinking to the depths of the ocean’s bed which holds only the discarded and unfound. Still I find myself buried alone.
Digging myself out and picking myself up often feels much like inevitable falling, back to the ground that breaks my bones and shrouds me in darkness. Now I have nothing left to climb with; the body is weary, tainted, damaged and my rope has unravelled, snapped, frayed.
But here, on this burning core in the pit of despair, there is no safety granted, much less guaranteed. Living here is no option. I must rise or sink deeper into this crumbling, breaking resting place they call hell (and home).
Yet there are times when I find comfort here. I have fallen to my bruised knees under the deafening sounds of visceral sobs and been held by the dirt. I have curled my body into the ground, for its concrete bedrock felt softer than the knives which grew on my pillow.
I have hidden under mud and matter to shield the eyes of the world. Tunnels have been hollowed, trenches built, removing all sludge and slime, finding refuge from the strangers’ gaze and the hands of the ones who know.
I have rested on razor-sharp roads to receive momentary glimpses of the stars that move quickly into the distance. Gravity has grabbed me, pulling me back to grit and gravel, as my mind has wandered into lands of danger and horror of a past unfolding.
Then, I find my roots destructing with the foundations I was built upon. I have broken ground, created through generations of lies; lies that lived until they consumed and crushed my fragile life, but with them I crash and explode, detonating with a force so great that even this ancestral structure could no longer be born upon.I have shaken the earth on which I stand, forcing secrets to scream. I have caused earthquakes through histories, revealing terrifying truths and breaking toxic ties. Craters of damnation have pushed holes through my body, allowing momentary sightings into my soul, giving more reason to look away from the bloody mess on view.
There are the ones who remain solid, rock-like in their presence, offering vacation landings to rest upon. Then there are those who run to idyllic hidings where I become a less and less welcome visitor. And I find that even their candy-floss carpets cannot hold me home.