brightness

I'm splintering, 
fracturing.

The monster inside me 
is winning the war. 

The room tilts, 
everything is bright, 
a sterile white, 
the shadows only spots
that swim lazily
across my eyelids 
when I close my eyes. 

I close my eyes
too often now. 

The light is blinding, 
the absence of shapes
confuses me. 

The couch, the walls, 
the Christmas tree 
still up in July. 

All blend
into the brightness
that pulses.

This is not a drunken poem. 
I am not an alcoholic. 
I don't sit 
alone by my phone
waiting for texts 
that never come. 

I am not a broken woman. 
This is not a shattered heart.
Advertisements

holding onto my altitude

I'm lost again, 
rambling sideways and down,
always half a step from the edge. 

It would take a stiff wind
or a stiff drink 
to make me fall. 

I'd go down and down
seeing the latter's rungs
flash by me as I fell. 

Reaching out,
my fingertips would tap
tap tap taptaptap
faster on the latter's rungs
as I sped up
on my way toward 
the rocky bottom. 

But I am not falling. 
I'm weaving, 
holding onto my altitude, 
recklessly, stupidly
in love.