I want to be saved.
I want to be helped out of my morning coffin by gentle hands that usher me through my day.
I want someone to monitor my thoughts, press into my aching bones, and whisper away the fatigue.
I am constantly wrestling, and I could use a water boy.
I want to be treated like an infant, like an octogenarian.
Feeble and foolhardy,
Spoon fed only what I need to thrive.
Carry me, then force me to move my tired body,
Even if it hurts.
Place my hands on the keys, and whisper exactly what I need to hear.
To get through the day, and back into the night,
Without judging that it was wasted.
Take control over my every choice and consideration,
For I am not fit to rule.
I experience my slow ruination, and do nothing to alter my course.
A jaded, selfish monarch in need of a minder.
I am my disease, along with the ones that came before in other bodies, and other lifetimes.
I inherit the depression, the addiction, the codependence, and retreat further inward as they creep onward.
Be my savior, and lift me out of this self-proclaimed grave.
Dig me out of my self-made puddle.
Place my feet back on solid ground, and pry my eyes open to take in the light.
I want to be brought to my knees.
I want to face my fate.
Teach me how to fish by holding my hands as you scrape away the scales.
Lay my broken-down catch in front of me and make me ask how it was done.
Show me what it is to be lifted,
So that I may seek the hands outstretched,
Waiting to pull me up by my untarnished palms.