PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”

running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy

the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out

falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.

Stepping out
On stepping stones
Cracked and ready to crumble
The slightest pressure or lightest weight
Bring the depths instantly closer
Plummeting to the unknown
Facing the unwanted
The sunny sky turns tunnel
Turns pinhead, turns black
Vertigo, no sign to guide
Nothing to lean on
No way to track the bubbles
As the drowning ensues
Searing pain, like lightening
Blinds or enlightens
A flash of what's to come
For an instant there is tomorrow
In that instant hope renews
A hint of up or down
A choice of direction
A path to glory
A way of life
And the sun will never be lost again