She wondered the paths of the wood in the spring,
Unsure which of the paths she should take.
She came to a fork, with a choice of two paths,
Was one right and was one a mistake?
The one on the right, was a path she knew well,
She knew every slight turn and each bend.
But she’d walked it before, and each time that she did,
She disliked what she found at its end.
The path on the left was a path she’d not walked,
Though she’d stood at this fork in the past
And considered the path on the left, but she’d heard
That this path petered out, did not last.
As she stood and she thought, a friend pointed the way
To a path that she’d not seen before.
It was quite overgrown, it was hilly and harsh,
But intrigued, she walked on to see more.
This third path was not easy for one, but for two
It was possible to find a way,
With her friend she walked on, and walked on, and some more,
In what proved a most torturous day.
But finally after much blood sweat and tears,
The path’s end appeared just in their sight,
It was well worth the walk, and the hardship endured,
Because where they were going felt right.
[inspired by a conversation I had when I was staying at Maytree. For me, the path on the right is anorexia and self-harm, the path on the left is suicide and the new, hard path is the one I’m battling along now.]