A slow depart

I've had words with myself
over the noises I make,
the way that I stake my claim to the soil
and the salty wave I gear at you.

I don't like me, not the ordinary type nor the extra,
but here is a space I've been before,
wishing to fast-forward,
a place I sure am familiar with.

I've stared myself down,
in the hours and separate hours,
between a wall and a bed, previously said words reeling
across the floorboards and no net to catch them with.

This is a push and pull,
the swell in water, the going,
beneath which I feel most, least, like me. A terrorising fear of falling inside an imposter with no wish to burn down a night, crash the party, climb to the top of the building and fly or to chase a rabbit.

I sweat, shedding fat instead of skin, to somehow burn fast as oppose to settling down.
In the pot of spinach, walnuts and raspberries
there's a reflection, I'd love to adore
or ignore in equal conviction.

So delicately, the days pass, the ordinary type,
and each moment is less aggressive, fuelled by Vitamin B complex instead of additives,
however the insides are smoked,
panicked - a lost child in a supermarket.