PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”
running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy
the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out
falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.
21/6 .. seven weeks and two days to go.
