I am a candle on the table,
burning for everyone but
myself.

One.
Two.
Three.

There’s nothing
but a downwards
whirlwind
beneath me.

The
numbers
are meant to make the
whirlwind
go away.

But
numbers
are the edge
of the cliff
I’m hanging on to.

Eventually the
numbers
make my fingers
go
numb.

I can only exist.
I can’t feel, and when I try,
My chest tightens
My vision blurs
and shadows
crawl up on me.
I can’t see, and when I try,
My spark of creativity
My spark of hope
My spark of joy
dissolves into nothing.
And if I can’t feel
And if I can’t see
Then I am only here.
I am only a body,
a shell,
a whisper of what once was.