Deadly sleep
A sun-splattered walkway.
Spring in the air.
A head full of humdrum,
routine, everyday -
thoughts of last night, tomorrow,
today.
Some silly squabble, some mishap at work,
some babble, some burble
milling and filling
the honeycomb in my mind.
A phone call-shattered mirror-ball moment.
Then
moment
after moment,
after endless fucking moment
falling and tilting and breaking and grasping.
Pain, pure -
leaking and spilling and bursting
through, crawling through, ripping
through every pore.
Tears leaching. Eyes bleeding.
Time, stops -
strange and numbed and
inured? The respite of shock.
I become a frozen icicle
pushing through
that minute, this hour, this
stretching
aching
expanse.
I don’t want to go on this 'journey’.
I hate you for making me.
I don’t want to find what it takes.
I hate you for making me.
Slipping away on pills and whisky.
Choosing your deadly sleep.
Punching your hole in my world.
Blasting my skin off, disjointing me.
Making me dig much too deep.
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