Limbo sits with me like a friend.
I wish I never knew her,
but she made the introduction.

When the rest of my life betrayed me,
and left me gasping for some form of function. Limbo came to find me.

So now I sit with Limbo,
and she tells me spiraling stories
of things I've thought of before—
again and again and again.

Limbo doesn’t listen very well,
and she doesn’t like to help.
She just follows me around.

I can’t go back, I know I can’t,
but everything forward seems
like broken glass.

And so Limbo and I sit
on bus stop benches, waiting
for direction.

We sit with family on holidays,
passing around overcooked chicken.

We sit at our office chairs, wishing we were anywhere but there

We sit in an awful, unsettled rhythm—
Limbo and I,
Limbo and me.