A
trapdoor opens, below my gut.
Gushing
forth, from a blade so swift
I
did not see the blur.
There
is an adrenal flood,
high
up the tree of my eyes.
To
look around and nothing to blame,
the
numb thud pouring in.
A
vacuum is tugging my heart down
where
my gut used to be.
Not
wanting to name it,
but
mental fury insists.
Sounds
flee from the shaping of words,
downward, guttural as tongue-less.
My
body, leaping at sentences,
stumbles
into a diminishing sense.
Who
drives these facial expressions,
I
have never met.
Who
owns me now?
I
plead for the fuming to stop
while
all the frayed ends of my life
soak
more deeply in misery.
There
is a blaze,
each
breath ignites.
Any
face to hear me now,
but
no listener's grip is coming.
Torn-apart-expectations
as even now,
this
mind is the last to know.
The
pounding from within,
looks
across at these thoughts to utter,
"who
are you to save me now?"
The
fury of dialogue, saliva and sobbing,
out
of my mouth, down the front of me.
I am intending to defiantly spit
on
my lost motor control,
that
sets me off,
to
yell up my spine.
A
tongue-lashing is sparking up to my eyes,
punishing
my mouth in passing.
Hurling
sounds I cannot shape
at
self-composure,
who
knew me then.
Gasping
parts are in disarray.
Fumbling
continues with another fix of breath.
Firing
off one more round of wretches.
Without
focus or frame,
drowning
mind surrenders the reins,
heaves
from the inside of it,
hurls
life in my face,
smears
the juice of despair into my veins.
Images,
punching my mind's eye,
bursting
the unsaid past.
Livid
now, every cell is first person,
telling
me, yelling at me,
where
I only want to hear whispers of pain.
Opening
to this grief,
is
burning hot coffee, in sorrow's lap . . .
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