here in my home with these white four walls, with a roof overhead and a garden and a microwave oven and a wood-burning stove I am drowned by my reality. Here,
here in my pit after binge eating pineapple until stomach gives up and tongue splits on acid, it chases me down.
The sensation cuts that I always was a rotten ship any sailor would be mad to climb aboard and claim their vessel.
Light seems to call to a close, heavy drapes of this life show thread-bare sections,
sickness and destitution pour in.
Poverty isn't as terrifying as pandemic
but abandonment and failure is.
Here, I sit, clinging to the edge of my sofa,
eyes swollen with tears
all those plans to be safe
- all those things I abandoned to secure safety for myself
- it could all fall to shit anyway
Who even am I?
A person who sells dreams to anyone willing to buy them.
cuts like an owl by night,
lifts as if victorious in hunt
and returns to a kingdom of dark.