Sometimes, I fly.
I am lifted carefully upwards into the bright embrace of *** herself, and there is a warmth in my heart I forgot existed.
Sometimes, I fall.
A pit far older than you or I is born beneath my feet and I plummet into the cold grip of illusion.
Sometimes, I laugh.
I feel happiness burst from my lungs into the open air, like a common cold.
Sometimes, I cry.
And it's not a dainty or pretty ordeal; it is heaving and whimpering with tears streaming down your face in the parking lot of your therapist's office. It's a psilocybin-induced sprint through the rain, except it's sunny outside and people are watching. It's the moment in the pond where you think, "I should drown myself," and the only reason you don't is because nobody will ever find your body here.
Sometimes, I forgive.
I know that I am good inside, that I am redeemable. I see the light inside of me and I feel her hands reaching out to pull me from emptiness.
Sometimes, I can't.
And the hands are pulled from mine by the mirror, and when I look into it I swing my hammer to break the bottle in the air.