Draining,
Draining,
into a pool of oil.

Slipping down the slippery ***** of solemn awareness
of the fact that I am slipping down a slippery *****.

Oil slicked, no friction, no grip.
Get up. That is an order.

I can't.

Why?

Because every time I move,
every move I make
puts me right back here into
this pit of slick, messy, dark stain
that cannot be washed away,
That's why.

Get up.

I told you I cannot.
I have no means,
The oil is heavy and thick,
like molasses,
it's thick and slick, and slimy.
Help me if you want me up.

No.