the rapids

There’s a backlog of sentences,

Words trapped behind my

fear to face myself.

They pile up like a dam—

thoughts that threaten to

Heal me.

I hold up my hands as they waterfall toward me,

“I’m not ready,”

I whisper,

throat dry from years of holding it all in,

because that would force me to climb out of this

hole I’ve dug for myself

that’s become so damn comfortable.

I’ve settled into this victimhood,

muscles atrophied while

doing absolutely nothing.

But these words,

these rushing rapids,

they pick me up and carry me

like a wounded soldier on the shoulders of my

most loyal comrades.