Vines
Sometimes I contemplate about my own self-destruction.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way this state has simply become a dreadful inevitability.
I wonder if I am at fault for the way my mind hums with a silence that scratches my soul.
I wonder if I am at fault for the visceral, undeniable pull that tugs at my sternum.
Fatigue.
It’s a conflictive concept.
It’s practical. It’s biological. It’s physical.
But for me, it’s the definition of my existence.
It’s the medical complications that pile up through my fingernails like tangled vines on a hanging tree.
It’s the pocket-sized triggers that push me back into a room with claw marks on the door.
It’s the way that no matter who I am, what I am, or where I am, I will always be a victim of exhaustion.
Not the sleepy, heavy-lidded homesick type.
But the invisible type.
The blood-itching need for evaporation.
The throat-clamping desire for combustion.
The tear-scarred plea for deterioration.
And I wonder if all I am meant to be is a hanging tree;
vexed by the vines of her own making and hung by the carvings of her own captivity.
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