and each time my chest tightens just a bit more,
thoughts a Gordian knot of horrors
turn it off, please, just turn it off –
reprieve is a paradise, and lost words a treasure
and yet, when I speak, I go only to Hell first.
bloody, I’m bloody
bandages wrapped in barbs and hurt
offering a salve that will eventually
numb is not alive, though,
and I just want to be alive.