when i slip into
a phase, I find it
exhuasting now.
every minute, a test of character.
every hour, a new demon to fight.
They hide inside, chip away at the interior, until it's like peeling paint.
Those days, I feel barren and broken, my detail is failing.
I watch jagged pieces splinter away and drift in the air
cruelly landing underfoot in
the crackly, dead leaves
that the streetsweeper missed that week.
"But what if..." it says. And that's all it takes.
I become frigid inside.
I feel it slide in my brain, clicking
and prying inside.
crooning, throat just out of reach; caressing, hands just out of reach
until it slaps me to the familar ground,
where I frantically gasp.
It's laughing now, as I curl back to darkness,
wiping my silent tears from my red cheek and my cramping heart from my sleeve.
My head pounds as my
unwelcome, yet comfortable
friend of mine simply
opens the door.
I can't even lock it.
