He was missing an arm,
It was gone,
Missing,
One morning,
Hacked away,
Blood seeping into his bed,
Hands... Hand trembling,
Shaking,
His whole body, bed, life...
Shaking.

It wasn't a clean cut,
He thought,
As he showered wearing clothes,
It was ragged,
Hacked off,
Unclean and not smooth,
There were scars up his arm,
As if they were reaching for his neck...

To cut his neck too.

He hadn't cried yet,
He couldn't,
His eyes were dry but he was screaming inside,
He turned to liquor,
And it burned like fire down his throat,
Turned to ****,
And made his stomach swing like a metronome,
And head quieten for a while.

It all wore off too soon.

He hadn't slept in weeks,
It felt like weeks,
Minutes branded into his skull,
Tattoos of dates on his arms... arm.

He always forget his arm was missing,
Always forgot he would never see it again,
It didn't seem real,
Felt forced and... broken,
Like he couldn't walk,
Couldn't move a muscle,
Almost afraid he would lose it too.

He didn't leave the house,
Windows rattled ominously,
Fridge screeched emptily,
Bed creaked like a child's scream,
A wail,
A sob,
Broken and complete and so darkly mesmerising.

He thought he would starve,
That his stomach would cave in from the inside,
Walls would tremble in fluctuating burns and hisses,
Eyes rolled back into his head,
Tongue out in disgrace,

Arm. Missing.

He felt like he had lost a limb,
When he had picked up that phone,
Felt plastic against his ear,
The quietened words of concern,
And halting sentence.

Sulphur burned his throat black,
Rubber smelt better than his rotting arm,
Blood looked better than wine.

“She is dead.”

It felt like he was missing a limb.