Loading
Alcohol, Medicine and Time — Movement III of The Vigil Cycle
And every morn a new song is born in my breast, a hum of thanks, a constant, quiet search to just be. A gift, the breath I take, a testament to moments I could ride on Hie, hie. The edge was nearly three times, a close whisper, a promise to be clear of this. An embrace once feeble and fumbling, I could not quite remove the trace of a shadow. But here I am. The sun still heats my face.
Yet I have tasted the three false saviours, and I know their names by heart.
The amber offers forgetfulness, the lie that promised warmth but left me colder than the kitchen floor. It was a river I tried to drown in, only to find I was the one who surfaced, gasping, more aware than before. A drink to blur the edges, but the edges only sharpened into knives I could not sheathe.
The little white soldiers marching down my throat each morning, filing my teeth to dullness, smoothing the raw places until I could not feel the sting but also could not feel the rain. They made me a ghost in my own body, functional, yes, but hollow, a bell that rings but has no clapper. I took them to forget the hand, but I only forgot my own name.
The slowest blade of all. The one that does not cut but wears. It scrapes away the seconds like skin, and I cannot outrun it, cannot out-climb it, cannot pray it into stillness. It is the clock on the nightstand, the red eye that watches me bargain, the hourglass that will not spill fast enough to drown me, nor slow enough to let me rest.
Some days I am a small child who must face a morning of fear, the ringing of the school bell, a terror I cannot outrun, cannot out-climb. The fear of eyes, the judgement sharp and keen, the invisible pain, the invisible scars below the tablecloth. The gym, the house of shame, the spray from the shower—it calls my name, a reminder of the things I want to lock away. I bury down the truth so deep that even I cannot find it some days. The blows, the hand, so harsh and biting— or I would drift, no place for standing, lost and homeless, a whisper in the wind.
But God, my God, He brought me to my knees with thanks. He doth strength to me renew, to face the day, to see the dark through. He is the rock, the constant beacon of guidance, that helps me to bear the wrong and then the right. Suddenly the praise—it feels like winter's frost, a chill that takes hold, a warmth that's quickly lost. I don't really want to find the love, but empty words that leave my soul behind. And then the sting, the lock of a door. Never again the feeling that I'm wanted. But His hand still reaches out in that void, to quell the fear, to sweep each doubt away.
And every morning a new song is born in my heart, to simply exist. A gift, the breath I take, a testament to moments I could live through. Go, go. The edge was nearly three times, a close whisper, a promise to be free of this. An embrace once weak and clumsy, I couldn't quite remove the trace of a shadow. But here I am. The sun still warms my face. Yet I have tasted the three false saviors,
The amber offers forgetfulness,
but left me colder than the kitchen floor. It was a river I tried to drown in, only to find I was the one who surfaced, gasping, more aware than before. A drink to blur the edges, but the edges only sharpened into knives I couldn't sheathe. The little white pills
making my teeth dull, smoothing the raw spots until I couldn't feel the sting but also couldn't feel the rain. They made me a ghost in my own body, functional, yes, but empty, a bell that rings but has no clapper. I took them to forget the hand, but I only forgot my own name. The slowest blade of all.
It scrapes away the seconds like skin, and I can't outrun it, can't climb over it, can't pray it into stillness. It is the clock on the nightstand, the red eye that watches me bargain, the hourglass that won't spill fast enough to drown me, nor slow enough to let me rest. Some days I am a small child who must face
a terror I can't outrun, can't climb over. The fear of eyes, the judgment sharp and keen, the invisible pain, the invisible scars under the tablecloth. The gym, the house of shame, the spray from the shower—it calls my name, a reminder of the things I want to lock away. I bury the truth so deep that even I can't find it some days. The blows, the hand, so harsh and biting— or I would drift, no place to stand, lost and homeless, a whisper in the wind. But God, my God, He brought me to my knees
to face the day, to see through the darkness. He is the rock, the constant beacon of guidance, that helps me to bear the wrong and then the right. Suddenly the praise—it feels like winter's frost, a chill that takes hold, a warmth that's quickly lost. I don't really want to find the love, but empty words that leave my soul behind. And then the sting, the lock of a door. Never again the feeling that I'm wanted. But His hand still reaches out in that void, to calm the fear, to sweep each doubt away.