Limit[less] Wondering what is my limit and if I've yet to hit it. If I let it expand by choice or bodily necessity; Before the monsters burst out of me I must assess how much distress I can take and I confess, this smile is not fake because despite the dark I hide inside within resides a ball of light that fights with all its might. Even so the day does end with night. Feels like I spin in place instead of orbiting space; Try to face sun rays only and ignore the dark side of my moon. It feels like it's coming soon. A break. The kind that will make me or take me away. What is my limit? Have I yet to hit it? Am I as strong as I think, to tiptoe constantly on the brink of doom - the tightrope that either ends in perpetual hope or a noose. How much can this rubber band be stretched before it snaps from stress, regress and lose my ability to hold it together under distress - The PTSD getting the better of me. Controversy of telling my story causing hesitation, pausing to keep others comfy. Yet the more weight I put on my back and unwind the slack it must be inevitable I'll run out of line, run out of time and drown out there in the sea. Will I be too far for someone to pull the rope back and save me? I didn't will this upon myself - Just the cards I’ve been dealt. Felt the weight of the deck like hands squeezing around my neck and I try to pry grim reaper’s fingers loose so I can breathe through the tightening noose because I choose life each time - I don't want to die. Want to cry instead than end up dead. Yet the war of agony continues in my head, threatens to infect my heart and shred me apart. What is my limit? Have I yet to hit it? Each time I think I've had enough life throws more tough stuff and I gather the pieces in my arms to avoid my loved ones being harmed by the shards. Polish and deal with it on my own; Yet each time I discard the crap life tosses into me like trash the aftermath leaves a burning rash, cuts, bruises and broken bones from the daily throwing of heavy stones. Wearing the crown of thorns compliantly, as my guts are torn out of me - A heap of organs that held pain deep - How fucking morbid; but how else do I explain this pain life laid at my feet? Feet sinking fast into concrete so I keep on moving, churning the mix so I don’t become fixed in place. I can’t let this harden me, because that would be a disgrace. What is my limit? Have I yet to hit it? All this trauma I try to fit it into a tiny little box, gift wrap these rocks that weigh me and make them pretty, place them under the tree pretending I don’t know what's under the tightly wrapped bows - Memories of bruises and blows, punches and slaps, of words that cut my psyche and settled deep into me. Healed over the splinters so even when I move it still hurts me. A bare tree exposed to everlasting winter. But I won't let you see. It's my responsibility. I carry on with life cheerfully because these calluses I won't let define me. Scars remind me that I hurt once but heal each time - Still. Still I wonder when it will all cross a line and if I will run out of time, if I’ll be finished or be fine. Wondering what is my limit and if I've yet to hit it.
[Kristina Rose Garcia 2021]
