When my daydream gets so threadbare I no longer use it, I must turn to other sources. When I cannot conjure on my own and elucidation makes me cross eyed, I must turn to HP. I have puttered and prolonged the way to naming this legendary and fabulous enigma. I drew out even longer any desire for close association with the same. I have milled with the millstone and surfed in the whirlpool, dragged my feet and thrown a fit, but this only stalled the inevitable result. Naming and interaction is the need and now is the time. I have a Higher Power and I choose to call it Frequently.
Dreams grow wings if you let them.
Eggshells and Bethlehem
A stable is a place to keep a horse
and in fairytales a place to birth a baby,
but stable is the story I told myself about you.
Solid, a model of strength
and here you are a tripod,
upright only if the pressure is evenly applied.
I blame myself for lopsided need
and try to find a way to keep this coupling standing.
Stripped down to minor contact
I wonder if you actually remember me
and then I wonder if I remember myself.
This is what is at stake, this is the trophy I lose
when I fall for you and you fall down.
Where is the girl I worked so hard to create?
Broken eggshells litter the nest
and I look for the chick I used to be.
I fear losing you,
I cry at the thought of losing us,
I die at the loss of me.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault