both/and

hope is the thing with feathers

I reach towards the joy
my hand open, outstretched.
Sweat beads on my upper lip
blanching white
while my face gains
a flush of color.

The unnatural warmth
leaves me teetering
on the line between comfort
and chaos.

This mind is drawn to 
a limerence,
to obsession,
to question.
Scenes of intense pleasure
and scraping rock bottom.

I watch the crumbling
of my entire existence,
after my world was shaken,
after my core was rocked.
The game pieces
so strategically placed
scattering to disarray.

What of myself was left,
carefully being
plucked
from the dust.
Stacked again,
and again,
and again.

The delicate perch
from which you wish
to spread your aching wings,
held only by hope,
a murmuration of feathers
beating together
to create the wind
that carries you
up from the ashes - 
it remains.

Photo by Photographer Søren Solkær