I have lived at the edges of myself,
where storms meet silence,
where the pendulum swings
between too much and not enough
never finding that gentle place
they call center.

My body remembers every earthquake,
every sudden drop,
every moment I was too small
or too loud for this world.
Now it flinches at stillness,
searches for familiar chaos
in the quiet of ordinary days.

I take my vitamins,
count my steps like rosary beads,
measure sleep in careful hours,
eat the colors that promise healing
but my nervous system
still hums with ancient alarms,
still mistakes peace
for the eye of a storm.

What is normal
when you've been stretched
between breaking points?
When calm feels like waiting
for the other shoe to drop?
When your body speaks a language
of hypervigilance
that no amount of green tea
can translate back to rest?

Some days I am a tightrope walker
on a wire made of breath,
balancing between
the exhaustion of too much feeling
and the hollow ache
of feeling nothing at all.