Edge
Anonymous
The edge,
where I lie so often
dripping with sweat
and aching with a promise I
don’t know
if I can fulfill.
Where I sit
in front of my laptop,
amidst the silence of a
testing room.
Where I wait,
Refreshing
the same screen that strained my eyes
for one,
two hours?
Time is lost.
Time is lost
just like it was last night,
when I thought
I had eight hours
but it only seemed
like two.
The edge
is where I live these days—
the edge
of the toilet
when I’m so nauseous
I can only cough
until I vomit,
can only stand
to find wobbly knees
which pull me down
to the tile again.
The rolled edge
of my pill bottle—
the orange plastic
in my fingertips.
It was supposed to help—
How have I found myself
so addicted?
Release one edge,
discover another.
It’s the nature of my affliction.
It’s not in my center—
it’s all around me.
It is not my core,
but it lurks
at every corner.
Edges don’t define,
but isn’t it
funny
how confinements describe us?