At the counters of my brittle doe eyes lays a bog of polarizing emotions, they have an intensity that ignites flight. Whaling in weight ready to take over.
Fleeing, I’ll run away into the tub or a closet.
The closest is the best escape because I can easily launch bundles of pillows and blankets, from my bed, before landing on my head. I hit the ground with a ringing numbness.
Inside the closet, a bundle of blankets coats the floor.
Everything that can be held in one load, in arms ready to fettle.
That ugly cry hurts, my lungs begin to rock, creak, ack from within. Like a wooden barrel filled beyond capacity, ready to burst. My throat burns for this steady wheeze of irritation. Rusted hinges don’t bend they dwindle away…
The contents of a spare tool junk drawer cycles through my diaphragm. Each time my diaphragm rises nails are uprooted, spilled super glue binds together the pain. What isn’t sealed rummages for air, that automatic response that feels like suicide.
A trick of the cruelest order.
Because I wouldn’t die unless more is taken,
I can end it.
My body isn’t built to give up this lovely back and forth that it has poisoned throughout the years.
The dialogue among this unconsented union, is natural. In that death is natural, in that failure is inevitable.
But so is life.