by Demi Armstrong
Wrapped in a quilt, sinking,
staring at the ceiling; neglected.
Clothes pulled from a pile.
The sink filled with plates and bowls left to dispose
of itself. Overcoming obstacles only to abandon
a familiar space.
Roads are full.
Traffic lights are occupied.
The radio is silent.
The houses are growing.
Each home lessens.
Your hair is different. I don’t like it.
Hair clings to each other, thick and filthy;
unable to let go.
When the roads are void
of life, there is only darkness,
in the vast lack of light,
thoughts expand to fill the space.
In the comfort of home,
the safety net can confine you, limit you.
Tobacco filters in through the window, lungs full of corrupted
air. Breathing in and out and in and sinking.
Pupils expanding, eye-line drifting from a blurred, aged window.
Last light is blocked, weight pushes down
like a protective embrace. Presses down
out of fear, out of pain.
The cold side of the pillow becomes warm.
In the space between the duvet and the mattress, the thinning air becomes intoxicated with sweat.
Replacing wilted flowers with new daisies
only to come back next week to replace these flowers again.
But I will,
I'll come back every day,
every week with new flowers.
I will get up every day for you,
for all you did
for me.
Soon I will get up
for me.
Comments
Post a Comment
Comments with names are more likely to be published.