Disease.

I am tired
of writing the same
sensible drivel you would happily
salt and pepper and lap up
as a late evening meal.
 
It's unacceptable
for my creative space
to have such pressure put
on the nature of a piece.

What if I wanted to talk about the concept of pills
and the idea that if you took fifteen Paracetamols daily
you could slowly induce liver damage,
therefore more likely to be declared as

"unintentional" rather than suicide?
Doesn't it seem kinder for
people, and you know me,
I'm one for social etiquette...

Sometimes.  
You wake up,
take your pills,
wash with Tia and begin

to allow the stress
to wash through your veins
and roll out from under your tongue
until no one dares say

"The girl needs help."
God, how many times
have I heard that silly line?
Were you oblivious,

or are you blind?
Who personally added to an already difficult
time? Not that it matters.
There's no persecution in the "unintentional",

for no one knows anything
for sure. I could have merely been
suffering awful migraines
and taken too many over a consistent period of time.

Do you hear how I sound fine?
For a moment I pretend this
makes sense
to you

as it does to me.
That's my sickness
and it's your plague.
Sometimes I get tired here.