Cliff Side

In this season, I have grown helpless.

I’ve been dangling off the edge of this cliff, tossing coffee beans and laughter over to stable ground, hoping no one can hear my struggle.

I want to do my best, I want to stand up for myself, show them I mean something. Yet, every time I try, they cut off my air supply; once the oxygen has left my brain, I hang here silently, close to death, reliving all the pain.

It douses me and it smells like old newspapers with fake headlines, putrid coffee grounds and rotting leaves.

I question every single day, why I cannot receive the same burnt offerings, why there are no candles lit in my cathedral.

The offrenda I’ve set up has turned to ruins; the table is cracked, the pictures are faded and the flowers have not been watered since last June.

Where’s the incense for my decaying spirit?

Where is the healing and support I need?

I want to scream, but I’m afraid the effort would snap my neck, then I’d truly be gone forever.

This is the loneliest life-support I’ve experienced.

I have been reminiscing about the growth I have endured. I’ve been pondering whether it was worth the struggle.

My body remembers the growing pains; she remembers the trauma, the quick snaps of action, the snowy hill and messy departures.

I am continuously giving up; laying low, sticking close to the ground - might as well dig my grave early and call myself to rest. I pray for peace, God answers me, “Repeat after me: PEACE FOR THE WEARY...”

peace for the weary...

my have I grown so weary.

I don’t believe I’ve had any rest, and I’m obsessed with finding the most perfect poppy field to lay my head.

I only hope my arms don’t grow exhausted or ache too long.

Soon I’ll be forced to let go.

I think I’ll keep my back facing the eventually impact of the ground below me.

Who knows how long I’ll be falling, I just know it’ll be too late.

Maybe it’s my own fault.

I could say something, there are plenty of friends nearby.

My lack of strength diminishes the endeavor.

A few friends have noticed my struggle, saw my embarrassment; they even attempted to tell me this is no way to live... dangling off a cliff hoping my arms won’t grow more weary.

I was touched, but I wanted others to help me.

I wanted my mother, but she was busy attempting to resurrect a crucified body.

My fingertips are calloused and bloody.

My friends dug their heels in the dirt, grabbing me by the wrists, pulling me up.

I grieve and kick my legs, begging to be left alone.

I let my aching heart fall back into place; once it’s revived, once it’s been bandaged and held, my heart searches for my mother and she’s no where to be found.

I can only hear her voice in the far distance but she’s calling out for another.

I want to accept these new burnt offerings; I want to take delight in the new flowers my friends have planted for me, the new incense they burn for me.

Yet, I still wait for my mother.

And every day I must hear the words repeated to me, “She’s not coming.”

In this season I’m lonely.

Lonely beyond belief, setting up camp beside this cliff‘s edge, trying to focus on the sunsets rather than the long jump below.

Sometimes it’s more comfortable to plant myself near the edge.

I’m aware if I chose to leave I’d find that poppy field I long for.

But my spine is curved towards suffering.

I want the power to pray for more superior posture; to dawn my armor, head out and fight for who I am and what I want.

The words spill from my mouth, but they’re out of order...

Who knows what will come of this.

My cracked table is still waiting, the faded photographs long to be remembered.

God patiently waits with me...

I wait...