Sipping my coffee as it rains, I feel the familiar pull of madness.

It is morning and the birds are singing.

The Sky is so darkly white with clouds I am sure the Sun has left me.

As the Wind blows, I wrestle with the urge to strip down naked, walk through the wet field, and feel the sticky sharp grass and wildflowers upon my legs and hips, as they leave marks and welts as proof of their unassuming strength. 

Within is the need to give my body over to the Elements and lay down as the Rain washes me until I shiver and finally fall asleep, lulled by a quiet death from exposure. Leaving my body for the animals and the Earth.

Staring out at my fantasy, I pick up my cup.

My coffee is cold.

The dryness of my soul turns to dust and falls off of me.

I sweep it up and put it in an old wine bottle.

I watch my soul bits swirl and turn red with the drops left inside.

I am hopeful it will work like old Magick and lift the dead within.

It is worth a shot. The bottle once was the tincture to soothe my soul.

I peek inside with one eye. I smell it.

In desperation for signs of life, I tilt my ear down and listen.

I only hear the hollow of an old bottle, loud in its emptiness.

I carry the remains of my soul to the Garden.

I dig a hole with my hands and a stick.

Making a tube in the ground, I drop the bottle inside the Earth.

On my knees, I cover it with dirt and then water the soil with my tears.

Too tired to move, I lay down and watch the dirt move about my hands.

Laying there, I hear my heartbeat as it pulls my soul back into my body.

It is painful.

The desperation of breath is sharp.

It’s a knife stabbing the fleshy parts of me from the inside.

It hurts.

Breathing in, I ache. Breathing out, I bleed.

Longing for a hand to hold, I navigate my loneliness.

The weight of Life may crush me, and there is no one to hear me scream.

My breath is a desperate grip on the minimum of living. Its sharpness, painful and bloody, is what I focus on to make it through the day.

The sharpness of it not just cuts but surprises.

The gut punches that come out of nowhere, making my underarms tingle with stress sweat, and my heartbeat pound so fast I have to put my hand over my mouth to stop it from flying out of my throat.

The tears that stream, reacting to the pain, fall in big drops of stored salty liquid off my chin, pooling on my chest as the heat in my cheeks burns. The sobs are the only way the ache can escape. 

My brain cracks, my soul goes dark, and my heart breaks.