I tell myself so many of the wrong stories.
Stories that end
in my defeat.

I sense
failure.

My skin is itching
and I’m scratching until it bleeds.

This morning, when I got out of bed,
I took a few steps then fainted,
arms spread wide, upon the familiar.
My head too light and weak
to handle today.

I now sit, concave with a heavy core
trying to fabricate a string to hold onto,
while this wave passes.