Lower than North Folk
She has me mottled, rotting,
left somewhere warm to speed up the process
and nobody sees, they still think me worthy
as cloud cover on warm days.
I'm cloud cover all of the days.
I am a membrane over joy.
I carry a virus, highly infectious, hugely infected.
Life was smooth and South, since driving North it's going South.
How quietly can you die when you know you shouldn't have been born?
How quietly can you die when you have a partner, a child, but you need a big rest, an endless rest from a life burnt out before they met you?
The death march is there, charging in my brain, as it did before I left, as I wished it would never again.
Put me down, please,
everything hurts as it always does when she's near me,
put me down.