Shattered windows panes wait at the foot of their frames with a nervous glance towards me.
There is nothing I can do.
I have had the fever for days,
and like dogs and psychics can sense sickness,
you watched my weakness from your dreams,
woke and waited for the worst possible time to “just need to talk”.
Now and then,
you knock so hard on the door that it disappears, running in fear as the windows wave goodbye and the carpet creeps under the bed to hide,
and you stand, your shadow shaking at the sight of you,
in the empty, echoing house with your eyes fixed on me,
and I am expected to be brave.
I am a mine for your mind,
your shovel, selfish and submerged until you feel satisfied and safe,
and I am just a pile of ashes and squandered resources on the bare floorboards.
I bleached my sheets,
though they were clean,
freshly placed upon the bed,
then ripped away a moment later by my mania,
an obsession that I have with weaponising my past against my fallen face,
pulling the trigger,
pushing the button,
smashing the galled glass and bathing in the shards.
Like a poppy,
I push through the damned dirt,
staring frosty mornings in the face and smirking as I grow,
going from one state to another,
glowing underneath the soil and water,
until I am ready to face the world.
Though I have survived so much,
with a stony soul,
stretching towards the sun,
I am still so fragile,
so vulnerable to the wind’s cruel gusts.
There is a passionate power from the sky,
that has his eye on me,
and this storm is so relentless.
My sheets are clean,
my petals in pieces,
soul all asunder,
because I’m under the impression that I can’t escape the pain that echoes on my bruised skin.
Good morning glum one,
it’s a great day to be bounding through life with as much of a smile as you can salvage.
The world’s a little savage,
and the passage of time is sublimely snappy, when you really don’t need it to be,
but you are awake,
and you are breathing,
and that’s something.