Coming Down

 Death is a judge who won't hear an insanity plea.
He doesn't care that you swung off the balcony just to find some more coldly soothing air.
He won't care that your head is bloody and raw from slamming it
Over and over and over and over again
on the corner of a grimy toilet door.
Or that you damn near drowned yourself, trying to wash your demons clean while the browning tiles fell in around you.

He wouldn't understand.
He'll claim you knew what you were doing when you let loose those sweet, darkly dotted poppies to blossom in your mind. He'll say you should have known better, that no matter how sweetly it calls, temptations fire always burns you.

But those fires will turn a sickly shade of yellow as they pour from your pores and both your arseholes. He'll laugh as liquid shit dribbles down your leg, and your screaming from the burning.

See, death is like the bible... He looms in corners of hellish motel rooms. He's found in the darkness of the watery eyes of a friend who cries to see how far you've fallen.