Where should I begin?
Slender, spikey limbs—
shaking, twitching, grasping;
hitching breaths, gasping.

Grinding every gear,
humming in my ears;
black shadows swirling,
darkness unfurling.

In control, she gloats—
lodged lump in my throat;
sweat slicks down my palms,
anything but calm.

Mind steady racing,
outward I’m pacing;
inside I’m frozen,
no choices open.

Pray for it to end,
my mind starts to bend;
wish her far away,
restricted airway.

Outside, no one knows;
they feel the winds blow—
my storm keeps brewing,
my nails I’m chewing.

No help but a pill
to deny her will;
as I drift so deep,
sanity in sleep.

Clear morning sunshine,
clarity to find;
roll out on two wheels—
she’s hard on my heels.

Breathe in and breathe out,
chase away my doubts;
her grasp starts to slip,
movement fouls her grip.

My heart, free at last,
lets go of my past;
mind banishes fear—
holds no power here.

When the Storm Circles Back

Anxiety has a way of masquerading as control.
It whispers that if you just tighten your grip a little more—stay ahead, plan harder, do better—the chaos will quiet.
But the truth is, sometimes the storm is the grip.

Anxiety is a trickster.
It doesn’t always come screaming; sometimes it shows up wearing responsibility’s face—a quiet whisper saying you can’t stop now.
It mimics diligence, disguises itself as care, and before you realize it, your pulse is the metronome of survival.

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Where should I begin?
Slender, spikey limbs—
shaking, twitching, grasping;
hitching breaths, gasping.

Grinding every gear,
humming in my ears;
black shadows swirling,
darkness unfurling.

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Every piece in Embodied Shadows starts as a conversation with myself—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a scream. The Echo Chamber was one of the earliest to take shape, written from that hollow place where isolation starts to sound like company.

What follows is a deeper reflection on the space that poem came from—the patterns that built it, the grief that fed it, and the slow process of learning to live outside its walls. If you’ve ever felt trapped in your own mind, this one’s for you.

The Echo Chamber

As she watches—
tapping her foot,
impatient with places
she’d rather not be…

lights grow brighter,
sounds start to deafen—
I’m pulled back under
inevitably.

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As she watches—
tapping her foot,
impatient with places
she’d rather not be…

lights grow brighter,
sounds start to deafen—
I’m pulled back under
inevitably.

A mere outline—
she’s felt but not seen,
trick of illusion
who’s not really there.

When we’re alone,
she comes into focus,
all straitjacket style—
no face, crazy hair.

Tucked in a corner,
doors locked to the world,
everyone shut out—
she whispers to me.

She hijacks moments
I’m at my lowest—
twisting my words ‘til
I fear being free.

Buried down under
blankets and silence—
hidden from the world,
the shades pulled down tight.

Circular echoes
of my darkest thoughts,
her twisted voice
is mine in hindsight.

The further I sink—
into her despair,
the less I hear those
trying to help me.

Sunlight is her bane,
fresh air a toxin—
she retreats, sullen,
hating what’s healthy.

Feel my lungs filling
with air not tainted—
twisted voice quiet,
the peace is sublime.

Softly engage with
others to connect,
shatter her curses—
in the nick of time.

Author’s Note:

This was one of my regular roommates for a long time. I hid from the world—got so bad I wouldn’t even answer the phone. It just felt safer than risking more hurt when I was already so vulnerable. It took time and effort to climb back from that ledge.

I still value my solitude, but it’s no longer filled with the same circular, self-defeating noise. Things can get better—one step at a time.
Be well, my friends.
— Liora

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Stealthy, she waits
Until I’m not looking
Creeps up behind
Murmurs in my ear

Muted whispers
Her messages hook me
Faults in my mind
Let her stoke my fear

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By night she moves
in and out of shadow,
silver drips down—
moon high above.

Her smile so fair,
coyness her method;
how she inspires
notions of love.

Lips so luscious,
gardens are jealous;
eyes like the sky
after the rains.

Hair black as ravens,
lost in the tangles;
heart cold as winter—
I’m fallen again.

Her laugh a rhythm
of bells intertwined,
her moves a dance
of nomad taboo.

She winds around,
entrances those near—
be careful, you’ll find
your soul is tattooed.

There’s no escape
when she sings you her song;
you would not wish it,
even if it were true.

For she is goddess
of all that is wrong—
you’re now held tight
in her magnanimous view.

Author’s Note:

I wrote Whimsy’s Edge long before I began naming my shadows.
At the time, I let others see what they wanted to see — desire, danger, beauty. I wasn’t ready to explain that it was always about addiction.
Looking back, I can see how my writing already knew what I couldn’t yet say: how easily seduction becomes survival, how quickly survival becomes surrender.

—Liora

Down so deep,
scraping the bottom—
there you will find
thick residue.

It lives there,
by will of its own;
its position
resolute.

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