On the cusp of
something.
On the cusp of
feeling.
Close to flinging myself
over the edge of some proverbial
cliff.
Close to feeling something like a swift
flick
of a match.
Suddenly.
Illumination.
And I would feel so burningly alive.
On this wish-washing cusp.
Of shedding these heavy, bulky layers
that are caterpillar-cocooning me
in some form I hate to admit
is me.
I am no Atlas,
With no globe to bear
on my straining shoulders.
I am nothing like that.
But I feel a little
like I think Atlas would.
Aching to just stretch out
and breathe a little bit deeper.
Like I am covered in layers of heavy
winter coats and scarves.
Wrapped up to the point
I am suffocating.
I am waiting to fling them all off.
I am waiting to breathe.
I'll be waiting for a while.
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