A life played on taut strings,
high-pitched and staccato
to breathlessness,
a break-necked tempo
that often feigns chest pains
and the vice hand we 3AM anticipate

Find a way to twist the machine head,
hear the cartoon sound effect
of boinging down
so your strum sounds loose,
slow, forgotten,
truth

When the tiredness came
sad eyes regarded it as nothing new
in hindsight she’d always made space for it,
an unconscious pet bed

the lack of shock
as it crept to her was almost nice
fingers on imagined fur
she felt her edges numb
retract from the screech of daily headlines
and dumb fingered scrolling
that sparked electrocutions

pacing in slow circles
around the blue pulse of her core
it settled unrequested
and pretended a defence
while forever she reached for rest