Five o’clock in the dirty grey morning,
I screamed then cried hard down the phone
to some disembodied
voice; not my own,
not anyone else’s.
Writhing in sheets,
gritting my teeth,
blood pulsing in one localised
place &
insufferable tight time;
this is when I know I’m alive.
Blinding white walls
or unbearably muted grey;
makes no difference if day
or night
in this cell: eternal, infernal place,
long echoed screams of rage.
Later, I talked to you.
You made me laugh,
though I cried & was bitter,
aching,
jaw tight,
face white,
body screaming
from lack of sleep,
cold cold;
it doesn’t soothe.
Stomach raw, ripped apart
by pain;
a bomb
detonated
somewhere below the heart.
It still beats though;
incessant like the ticking of
an old grandfather clock.
There is blood lost
I think,
yet still
pulsing pulsing;
the pain of life.
Persevere you tell me,
not taking your own advice.
Even clothes hurt;
everything centred
on that bright point
of pinprick pain
over
& over once again.
If only dreamt of death
was so simple;
there wouldn’t be
oh so many
of us still left