Holding the Rope

When the self begins to drift

Hey—
HEY.
Look at me.
Don’t drift.
Don’t fade.
Not again—please.

You’re spiralling —
I feel it before you do,
that quiet tear running through you
just before the fall.

I’m grabbing your shoulders,
your breath,
your pulse —
but you’re slipping through my hands
like something I was never meant to hold.

Stop saying you’re fine.

You’re not fine.

You’re falling,
and I’m falling with you,
trying — God, I’m trying —
to pull you back inside your own skin.

Wrap your arms around yourself if you must,
but don’t lie.
Tell me you’re here.
Tell me you can hear me
pounding against your ribs,
begging you to stay.

You keep filling the silence —
food, noise, distraction —
anything but the name of what hurts.

If you won’t name it,
how am I supposed to fight it?

The wave comes anyway —
that cold rush up your spine,
that half-second drop
where your heartbeat forgets itself.

And I feel it first.

You split again —
mind one way,
body another,
spirit somewhere I can’t reach —
and I’m tearing myself thin
trying to keep you from coming apart.

Stop dividing.

I can’t keep gluing you back together
with shaking hands.

I’m trying to save you,
but you have to reach back.
You have to hold on too.

I’m scared.

Not of the pain —
but of losing you inside it.

This drifting, freezing, breathless space —
I know its name.

It’s being unmoored.

And I, your ego,
am fighting to anchor you
while I’m drowning too.

So come back.

Not for me.

For yourself.

Stay inside your own skin.

Stay.

with love, Apong🎀