(I am new i suck just a heads up just wroting for therapy) The edge of peace
​
I stare up, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, keeping time with the fan.
A deep sense of dread has seeped into my bones.
Half asleep, but I can't seem to go back over the edge.
I can feel my heartbeat in my throat and an ache in my back.
An urge to get up and run, with no set destination in mind.
Just
Away.
Away from this feeling that somewhere mistakes have been made.
Like I am a fool for believing I have found a safe place.
Like my soul is screaming at me for allowing myself to feel peace.
Like the very air I breathe is reminding me why I had put that shield up in the first place.
Like I can feel hands pulling, and whispered false reassurances like phantoms that have attached themselves to me—having planted anchors so deep, it's easier to ignore them than to face the pain it causes to pry them loose.
I close my eyes and make myself remember the gentleness hands can also have.
How they can protect instead of harm.
How they can give peace instead of fear.
How they can make me feel treasured and wanted instead of broken and used.
I feel my pulse slow, the persistent ache fading away as I imagine the cool hand cupping my face as I finally fall back over that edge.