Each strand leaving an invisible lump
in my throat
Digging a moat made of
tick lists, weight gain, and loss.
A household tossed into the bin of
my memories
Offered up to the rust, and the
stains of post-cognition
Not even writing anymore, because each page
brings up the nightly nightmares like
bile in
my throat, and there's the moat
again
And I'm drowning.
For, what am I without creativity?

There's no panic though

Just a strange apathy as the weeds
tug on me

Because I know I can never fall in
As deep as before

Curious.