Saturday is not a Saturday anymore but
The number of spiders crawling under my skin
A chair is not just for me but the weight of thoughts
That just sit inside of me.
No light, artificial or from a device
Is ever bright enough.
If I don’t have the wall up close
Very close
Touching my eye lid, I feel I will fall apart.
Structures becomes liquid and I am drenched in my room.
It is cold, my fingers are burning- red at the tips
Match sticks
Burning all at once, I don’t have enough air in my only two lungs
Isolated in my chest, to put the fire out.
I feel my hair, it is soft.
Maybe the only part of my anatomy I take care of
Consistently-
I cannot fall apart or let them fall.
Slowly, but shakily.
Pretense of a steady past.
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~insight07
Access prose and poems in my book, “Dreaming in a Fish Bowl”!
Link- https://rb.gy/nbxljh
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