Rollercoaster

I find times where I am hollow,

full of ghosts which haunt me

and encircle me like snakes,

constricting around my throat

suffocating me until my plees of help

are only whispers of pain.

I find times where I am whole,

and happiness flows from me as if

it is a spring errupting from the mountains,

bringing purity and quenching this

thirst fighting to be satisfied.

I find times where I am nothing,

where I fill no space and am not made of matter,

but made of stains of the past,

soaking into my soul until it is murky,

turned black

by the things which I bury deep.

I find times where I am everything,

all of the things that I wish to be

and all of the things that I am.

But I can never find these times together,

or piece them together so that they

may reform a woman who once was all,

but now is fragmented.

I find that I am a rollercoaster,

twisting and turning, contorting in manners

which at times I do not agree with,

which at times I cannot stop,

which at times I am powerless to.