Shake and totter, do I,
a three-legged stool balanced on two legs.
One, quiet strength.
Another, passionate emotion.
Shattered, am I,
as I tip towards recurring self-infliction,
fearing the imbalance,
dreading rising again,
bracing for inevitable pain.
Survive, shall I,
for the balance I require was never beneath,
it was always within,
always close at hand,
always waiting for me to understand.
©March 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne