stablization

As I look at my small red clad feet I feel the world shift under me. This is not a new thing, this is my thing. I have always questioned the foundation for which I was set. The ground has always been riddled and rocky, and I balanced, spinning like a top, spinning like my thoughts.  I wonder of what substance I am made of since it is not a stable substance. Closing my eyes I can see myself flow like liquid, fitting in the cracks and flowing back out before it I can assume the shape.
The trail of liquid, the clanking of ideas, the consistent loss of footing, these are the things I am composed of. I am made of fairy tales, imaginary valor, sacred contempt, and withering will. Still I not afraid of these parts and pieces. I don't scorn myself for lack of internal normalcy, because Christ in Heaven what is that and where would that place me in the grand scheme of things? Once placed there would I want to visit, take up residence or long wistfully for the inky flow of my soul to allow me passage away?
Who cares if the I fit nowhere yet melt into everything at the same time. If my mind rides a back road and my veins drip ink what does it matter? I adore the constant inconstancy of what I am and all that I become. I should be a million things and somebodies but it is hard enough being me at times to focus on the shoulds. The am's possess me and I am happy as I am broken, battered, fearful, fulfilled, flawed, loved, scattered, loyal, and inspired.
In youth I searched for roots. Tied myself to rotting limbs just to say I belong to something bigger although never better than myself. I dirtied my temper, would forsake my desires to feel a part of this dying murderous thing. To feel the wobbling flux of a thing that I couldn't really belong to. I choked on the guilt , mocked my own heart and dreams. I looked in the skies pretending they held the answers, pretending it was the weakness of my voice that refused to part the clouds. I stared into red rimmed eyes, I stared into the face and existence of insanity clenching my fists to keep from being swept away, swept in, carried off in the waters that drown me.
Now I look at the clouds. I stare at the beauty of the formations, searching for shapes and rainbow's. I have weakly severed faith and family as one severs a sick limb, but still feels the phantom pains of where it should be. I grow, I learn, I melt into my own cracks. Christ above or mother below, I'm am still uncertain, but what am I ever certain of most days aside from the uncertain path of my thoughts and the inevitable rush of my blood, black as night pure as ink.

Washing Away...

The water pulls at me, weighing me, crushing the breath from my lungs. I am treading in genetic cyanide. The wounds gap as the life ebbs out of them. I don't know how much longer I can force my mouth above the waves as they crash and suffocate me with relentless fervor. I feel awkward and hollow. I don't know anymore where I came from and don't know if I want to go back. I pull in the last breath as I go under, go away. My mind floats through a screen of memories of good, of bad. The good is more like a sitcom the bad an epic Greek tragedy.
Closing my eyes I surrender. I don't have an idea of what I'm fighting for anymore since I am clearly never winning anything. My solace is the eventual exhaustion that brings on fretful sleep. I would prefer my happy nights of walking the halls then the sleep of desperation. It all falls from me, sister, mother, attachment. I open my thin fingers and visualize my mind letting it all drop. The rush of water swirling the images out, past me. I seal myself from the hurt, biting my bottom lip that quivers from injury, anger, contempt. My fingers instinctively start to form a tight ball, a fist, but they can't. Why?
Another stronger, careful, callused and sensitive set hold fast to mine. The world rushes, throwing shadows off of me as the hand pulls me, supports me. I see a set of blue eyes, then another, and then a sparkling set of green. This is what I am, this is what I am made up of, not the lies that pull and contort by heart. I feel the small tight stitch pull my wounds together with a squeeze of his hand. I feel the healing in the laugh of my daughter. I feel it in the arms of my son. I breath them in, claiming their beauty to nourish the ugly inside of me. The water still washes below my knees but it will no longer drown me. I will float my own way, or wade it out if I wish.
I can't starve for scraps of affection, nor suffer for deeds not done. I can no longer apologize for transgressions I never committed. I can not seek forgiveness when there is nothing to forgive. I shall emerge and thrive in the eyes of my family, the laughter of those I love, and the arms of all those that love me. I don't need genealogy to make me who I am, I can make my own family and relations myself, entwine my soul with those that deserve it, not those I have been saddled with.

                                           I was listening to the impeccable Johnny Flynn.