“My life has gotten a little bit easier”, she says, “the anxiety has eased up a bit this week.”, and I hear the lightness of her voice, a twinge of hope I haven’t heard in her before.
I’m glad for her, hoping it lasts this time. Praying the same for myself.
That’s all we want, for things to be just a little bit easier, we aren’t asking for the moon.
Is he relaxing, finally, his ever-present grip?
On her?
On me?
His fingernails sharp, too long untrimmed
dirty, wretched, ridged like off road trails, yellowed from lack of sunshine.
Those nails dig deep, curved scimitar like cat’s claws-
you can’t simply pull them off without tearing away the flesh as well.
They must be slowly unhooked, one by one.
He is the nastiest of friends, but the hardest one to let go.
“I’ll keep you safe”, he promises with fetid breath, “I’m the only one who can.”
I know he’s lying.
I know it.
At least I think I do
At least, sometimes I do
in the bright of early morning when all the shadows have been chased away by starfire and hot coffee and birdsong.
But when the sun goes down, and the blood sugar drops,and the ghosts of all my conversations come back to laugh in my face, and my heart does that strange dance, and my hands get shaky
the first thing I reach for is his hand.
