Slumped
on the floor
under a blanket of self-loathing,

every attempt at change
a bloodied bruise,

fingers gripped tight
on the air
that is the hope
that maybe one day
five years from now
I'll wake up and somehow
things will be better.

What did I find
That slipped joy into place
so completely
That I don't need to write?

I am still tired,
still worn,
but it does not crush,
not like it used to.

What has filled me,
that there is no more room
for words of pain to leak out
in ink?

The itch grows
and twists
and prickles
more and more
the closer and closer
I get to relief

I can't decide if it is strength,
my choosing to stay,
or weakness.

Running home,
exhausted, the tail end of sick,
it seems like the easy option.

But staying,
staying is maintaining the status quo,
even though that "quo"
feels like having my shoulder
against a moutain pushing back.

I want to die-
I have never been this sick
and never been so sick
as to be unable to function
twice in one year.
I already did my time,
dammit.
I am miserable
and have no recourse.

All I can think of
is going home.
Quitting,
throwing in the towel,
a disappointment.

I hang on anyway,
for now.

Barcelona

Too much history,
too much to see,
to do,
I have to come back.
Maybe not this year,
Maybe not this month,
but one day.

I will see this place again,
uncover more of her stories
and food and joys.

The bus ride is long,
winding through moutains and history
to find its way
to an old city
I know stories of,
and now I can touch its stones.

Of course,
the first thing I truly do
is wind my way
into a salsa lesson.