Skipping the circle

It’s like waking up with a killer in the room.

Not a metaphorical one—no, this bastard’s real.

Polished shoes, blade in hand, eyes like a reptile.

He’s been here all night, waiting,

smiling like a used car salesman who already knows the deal.

He doesn’t sleep.

Doesn’t even blink.

Just leans in the corner,

He just stands there sharpening.

watching me breathe.

He’s patient.

And a scalpel,

hungrier than sex.

he never loses.

He never runs out of ammo.

And he knows me better than my own mother.

the cure is community.the only medicine is people.

Sometimes I hate the cure more than the disease

Sit in the circle.

Say the words.

Wear the smile.

“Hi, I’m—”

and let the chorus finish the rest.

The cure is community.

The thing I hate most. Sometimes.

To be “a part of.”

To admit I need.

it’s not me

To sit under the fluorescent lights

and pretend I belong.

Some days I’d rather not.

Some days I’d rather lock the door,

Open a vein of silence

Let the killer pull up a chair.

The truth:

There’s comfort in his hand on my shoulder.

There’s comfort in knowing

He’ll take me out quick.

Faster than the recovery

To miss the hand that strangles you.

To love the thing that wants you gone.

To call it relief.

To call it choice.

24/7.

A war no one sees.

And when I stop fighting—

when I skip the circle,

I don’t fall.

I dive.

Headfirst.

His breath is right in my ear.

Twenty-four hours a day.

Seven days a week.

A private Vegas freak-show

with no audience and no exit.

The blade glinting under the neon.

My own hand reaching for it.

I, myself am war

“Come closer,” I say.

“Make it quick.”