There are times that
it gets so bad around you
that it fills you with it,
like sea-filled
lungs, like that
last breath of water
before darkness.
There are times that
it sinks in your chest
and your arms and that space
right behind your eyes,
that dull ache.
Death comes slow
amidst the wreckage;
in the chest and
the arms and the
toilet seat, gripped
white knuckles and the
stale, thick burn of acid
in the throat.

There are times that
it gets so bad around you
that it fills you with it.
Death comes slow,
persistent in its march,
and you look upward,
bleary-eyed and shook
to the bone, into its
balanced gaze
knowing, but never truly
able to understand,
how close it really is.