I feel low.
I crouch myself down into the corner of my kitchen, against the dishwasher and the cabinet full of pots and pans, and the hardness of the silver handle presses against my neck, the pain reminds me of the living state that I remain in and–
And I feel low and I want to hide. This is weakness, the slackness in my arms, the rigor of my hands, curled over, my knees hunched up against my chest, my booted feet too large and unwieldy.
In less than 24 hours, less than 12, I was rendered a blow that hit me somewhere deep and somewhere buried. It took all of this time for it to register — this humbling… I didn’t think myself haughty, deserving of this, but someone, something, somewhere must have, and yet–
I know I will survive. I know that this will pass. All of these blows, all of these things, they do pass, in time. But right now, I feel low. I want to hide. I want to curl up into nothingness.
I am an empty hole, full of nothing, capable of nothing, absent even as my flesh remains warm.