At what point
did it start?
they ask.
An endless rhetoric,
slyly demanding
unremembered
histories
I don't know.
a simple answer
feelings do not
come into your
heart with
warning
they bang on
your rib cage,
a dull echo
shuddering through
your body
I am not
a moment
captured in
a photograph
stained sepia,
a sliced negative
It did not
start with
the click
of a clock
stopping the
hour hand
at twelve
it consumed me,
slowly. The sea
does not devour
the sand with a
single wave
it is the
onslaught of
sadness creeping
into your blood
a parasite,
a lowering of
cells
it is
criminal,
and I am it's
victim
as you try
to execute
my misery
with pills
(electric shocks)
crisp white sheets,
pulled so tight
they feel like bandages.
Wrapping around my limbs
until I am paralysed
with emptiness
one bed, one desk,
one chair
a tick sheet of
sorrow that I am
now pinned
to
like a butterfly,
living for only
one day
but pressed and
preserved
indefinitely