Boxed in

My body is my castle, but not really

It is a tree. It grows, it blooms, it withers, it dies

Dwelling place doomed

The inherent contradiction of our human story

An inner understanding of everness

Wrapped tightly in our outer and inevitable demise

I is always, is all over

It cannot be boxed in

But there is a box

And it’s got 2 legs and 2 arms

I’m boxed in body, a coffin of scaly skin

A thought in the dark of night

Kathy, your body is your cathedral

Cherish it. Adorn it. Love it with all your might

(But is it a place of prayer?)

Such thoughts wander round

While I whip myself once again

Because it is the black of night

Because I’m in bed dead again

Because of the empty glasses

Filled glasses I emptied into me

Red poison

I lie awake in obscurity

Self hatred spits disgustedly at the dying body box

Harsh, razor blade, words cut deep

The accusing voice holds my face hard down in the mess I am

Another voice whispers gently

But only when I’m done drowning

(It knows the futility of boxing blackness)

Kathy, take care of your body

It holds the seed of thee, your drop of being

It is your place of worship

But someone said no, it is a tree

It grows, it blooms, it dies, disappears

And eternal essence feels confused

Or is it the tree that gets uneasy

Lusciously leafy

Now sterile and stark

My branches

My being

My bark

Maybe it needs to be watered

Maybe just another glass of wine

Author’s note: I post this old poem today in commemoration of May 13th 2015, the day I stopped drinking. Cheers for these two years! I send my compassion to all those who stumble in the dark. Just remember that addiction is not who you are. It is where you are. I groped alone through a murky swamp and then one day reached a green valley.  And so will you and so will you.

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