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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,


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


how confinements describe us?