I am on the floor.
Powerless.
Paralysed.
It’s pressing me down into the dirt.
I can still scream:
"Help me. I don't know what I’m doing.
Help me not destroy everything."
To who?
God I don’t believe in?
The universe?
Like they give a fuck.
Like he did.
Come hold me.
Fuck the lonely out of me.
You can’t.
But you can make me forget.
Save me.
It’ll make you feel so powerful.
My saviour.
My suffering will latch onto
your failure to hold me.
Make it make sense.
Let it be worth something.
Something we can both believe.
And then:
The Critical Voice (Mother / Inner Critic)
rigid
I get down to her.
Like she used to.
Not to hold....
No, just to hush.
Get up.
You got my favourite top dirty.
I just did the laundry.
Great, more work for me.
You're embarrassing.
You're too much, again.
Go wash your face.
Up you go.
Don’t cry in public.
God, always this dramatic.
The Joking Voice (The loop breaking clown)
performative, sarcastic, trying too hard to stay in control
I get down to her.
My best impersonation of comfort.
"Bravo, another Oscar-winning meltdown.
Up you go, drama queen.
We’ve cried enough for today. Or the whole month!"
"Give her a hand, folks, she’ll be here all week."
The Healed me (The One Becoming Real)
grounded, soft, unafraid to witness
I get down to her.
I don’t wipe her face.
I don’t fix her top.
I sit beside her in the dirt.
Squeeze her hand.
And say,
“I’m here for you.”