Flipping Coins

There is a small hole dug through and  beneath the cold foundation of my blue room. I crawl into the opal space and into a fetal bind. I am a feral cat.  Moving through my darkness cautiously, suspicious of every sound and shadow and of every ache beat relentlessly against my tired soul. Wool and coal wash over me. I try to meditate on the familiarity of grief. Grief for what was lost and what was never found.  I am safe under the suffocation of regret. But the fabric of sadness itches at me. I am uncomfortable in my own skin. And with my thumping pulse. The walls lean closer. The air is stagnant. I try to brush away the grey matter settling across my eyes but my arm is too heavy to lift. I succumb to my old friend loneliness. She never disappoints. Beside me my younger self dances, and she smiles. She writes stories and loves animals. But hope was exorcised from her body in velvet time and I fall deeper into my hurt.. The voices from beyond this sunken life make me wonder what it is like to be normal. To have friends. To fall in love. To feel purpose. To not feel everything all at once. But my abyss is Judas and I am seduced deeper into its vast solitude of vacancy. Doing time in life’s cell of despair. It is hard to breathe here but not hard enough.