A doll stands wedged between two mailboxes, naked and exposed, the edge of the road passing her by. She is there to pay for my self-loathing. I throw my treasures in the air as skeet to be shot and shattered. Hate is the obnoxious microbe, which sours my digestion and rids me of nutrition and affection. I purge love and tenderness. I rip the covers from my playthings and leave them to bleed. I hide in my self-destruction. I put garish displays street-side and cry my tears alone. I can not ransom innocence to pay the price of fear. I must bring in the broken babies and put hate out on the curb.
Tickle wit with realism.
I have trouble raising my 50 pound hand in meetings.
In between meetings I have the problem
of trying to dial the 500 pound phone.
Which leaves me with this 2,000 pound weight
on my chest and no air to breathe, no life to lead.
There is the difficulty of the relentless tyrant,
my would be sponsor, the person I fail to ask.
Plus the home group that does not support me,
since they do not know my name.
All the while folks laugh and talk and have a good time,
I can see none of them have suffered from my weight problem
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault