Not a poem, just an echo.

I wasn't always this exhausted, coming home with labored, anxious breaths after barely working. My bones were never this fragile. I never used to trip on my words and second guess every answer bubbling on my tongue. Life used to flow with a rhyme I could follow, predictable and calming. There were preludes of adventure yet nothing I couldn't wrap my mind around. Now, there's just single notes repeated, and I can't stray from the one note or everything will crash down.

Everything - magnified - the way I take up extra room at the table, the burden I place on others even though I ask nothing of those I love. I will never completely shake off the soil that once tried to bury me alive. I'm not always worth it to me.

The irony? How you often called me pious, a woman of God though I never wanted the pressure. Of needing to plead for mercy, for forgiveness, for acceptance of who I am when acceptance should have been defined by no one

other than me.

Somehow I miss the reassurance. Because at least then, I could visualize the shore, a firm foundation. I could hear blaring horns as hands lifted me from my sinking ship, warming me in love and the promise that my feet would sink into earth once more.

Faith wasn't always easy but it was constant, a safety net when I balanced too many demons.

Surviving meant one step forward. Face up. Heart strong. Lately, I've been walking in circles and the weight never fully vanishes. It leaves momentarily then sneaks back into my lungs and the air is dusky, never quite settling my nerves. Bricks are lodged in my intestines and I don't [can't] progress. The lightweight feeling, the effervescence, of hope is gone. No one told me the absence of physical pain does not equal levity; there are different stages of pain and right now, I'm tasting the bitter leaves. The nostalgia of a finale.

This is not a poem, because poems have purpose. And right now, I'm spilled ink, collecting memories from open wounds.

I was supposed to be whole, after all of that.