There is a gravity to sadness,
a slick weight that drags me
down into a rusted well,
walls wet with old despair.
Anxiety, like spiders,
hides in the dark.
I claw at the edges,
my nails breaking,
fingers smeared with darkness
and blood.
I jump.
I fall.
The ladder’s missing three rungs.
Even the echo forgets me.
Shadows curl around my ankles,
whispering, laughing,
like old friends turned enemies.
I put one foot in front of the other,
fingers raw,
knees scraped,
breath ragged
as smoke
in a Neighborhood Tavern.
Hope drips in
through cracks
in the walls,
thin light
like whiskey
in a chipped glass,
long-lost,
bitter,
warming my chest.
I rise.
I’m lifted.
I move on.
Sanctuary waits,
an ink pen glows
in the candlelight,
and I take it,
put it to the paper,
and it all resides
deep in my chest.