Sometimes, It feels like life is bleeding through my fingers every other month
I float and dream of a time i will not have to be in my head for the moments I want to be real
But when reality knocks on my door and I see its long spindly shadow seep through the cracks
and darken my floors I can sense it.
Like impending doom inside my ribcage
Like the putrid stench of lost dreams licking against my sinuses
Like the drum rolls of disappointment hammering against my senses.
I can see it hear it smell it
Taste it. Souring on my tongue and crawling toward the back of my throat to choke me
It does not want to kill me.
I wish it did.
It wants to trap me in my tower and strangle me just enough to leave me limping against the
limbo that is its true form.
Like a nightmare haunting my waking hours.
I consider retreating back to my bed.
To my laptop to my head to find something anything that will give me the high I need to slip out
of its shadowy fists crunching my bones beneath its illusive grip
I consider going to sleep.
I consider letting unconsciousness guide me through the days
The window blinks at me.
Patient. expectant. calling.
Flirting and flaunting in its stillness.
Blowing kisses to my pulse beating under the claustrophobic stretch of skin.
I look away first. Always first.
I consider opening the door.
Taking the gamble.
I will have to one day anyway.
I'm stuck in my spot in the hallway staring at its antlers swaying and still, growing and growing
until it reaches my toes like the growing tides of a full moon night.
It doesn't move further. Still stuck on the other side of my doorway.
Polite and sure.
Sure like the rising sun in the east sky that lightens my hallways and kitchen and the living room
and lightens the pulsating shadow lapping at my feet.
I retreat back into my bed for the day until it all begins again for the night.
eyes on my high for the day
Praying hoping that tonight it gets me up enough to let me forget about the ugliness of the
beauty I chase after through my books and dreams and notes and shows.
The window stays blinking at my back.
patient. expectant. stalling.
Flirting and flaunting in its stillness.
Blowing kisses at my beating heart,
throbbing under the dying stretch of muscles and bones that covers its miserable home
Still, expectant, patient, sure.
It's a long way down.
