On the Edge

Quite often, I find myself questioning whether or not I am real;
whether or not I am alive.

It's hard for my brain to reconcile the life I have now,
and the life that I used to live—
the person I used to be.

How is it that I grew up a real girl, with real childhood friends, and memories, and yet, here I sit, a dull husk, at the young age of nearly twenty-six?

Perhaps, my brain cannot logically accept the two jarringly different lives I have lived.

Or is it simply my heart that cannot handle the truth...?

I mean, how could it?

To accept my own existence— my current, soul-sucking state of being— would also be to accept the memories of the past, and all of the relationships and people I have lost along the way; not just one or two, here and there, but nearly every.single. person. contained in the 'good memories' that I know I am supposed to look back on with fondness, but now have come to only plague me.

All of them—

gone.



Seemingly in the blink of an eye—


I
am
left
alone.



Is it any wonder that I prefer to stay detached?


As much as I detest this numb, monotonous purgatory I am swathed in, would dwelling in the world of the living really be worth it, if living meant feeling all of the agony and loss?

Am I just supposed to pray that after all of my ex-lovers, ex-best friends, and everybody in between, have taken their pieces of me, ripped them from my body, and left, I just might be left with enough tattered shreds of myself to make something new and move on?

What are the chances on that bet?

I want so badly to be fearless—
to go all-in,
on me.

I know 'the house always wins,'
and it may be a moot point,
but
I
want
to
live.


I just need somebody to push me.