SAFETY IN MY CHAIR
Sometimes I have to sit with my knees tucked up under my chin. My feet can’t touch the floor at these moments. I hug my legs to me, I feel contained but somehow adrift in my chair. I center my mind on breath and pulse. Pure fear flits and flutters while I gain my composure. When I feel safe enough to put one foot down, then the other, and connect with the world again, I am leaving home to embark on this earthly trek. The journey is there for me every day but some days I curl up in my chair.
Complement your feet with your shoes.
I never killed my father.
Why finish a job that
someone is completing all on his own.
It’s not that I didn’t wish him dead;
I did and do for that matter.
Don’t misunderstand me,
I wish him no harm,
It’s just that he is like a creature so tortured
that he is nothing but a danger and a misery.
Left to live he is a hazard to everyone
he has contact with, an agony to live inside.
What can I wish for him,
but departure and rest,
something he can never give to himself.
I don’t plot, don’t scheme,
I only know; know in part,
the terrible lie he lives
and hurt he drags from place to place
Acting like it is not there and nothing matters;
let’s just get by. So, if he is not dead he should be.
He is the embodiment of the hurtful impotent god
and I don’t kill that man
but I kill the image, perish that thought.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault