the plant is dead

cockroaches crawling all over my skin

anxiety sets in

I guess I’m not leaving the bed today

their eyes will probe me, creep over my skin

like the roach, they will know my weakness and shame

every day I regret not leaving this world when I had an easy chance

terror pins me to the bed, I drown in self-hatred

screams deafening echo in my impotent body

frustration and rage, hopelessness and pain

I shed tears as the room grows smaller

until finally I’m consumed

unknowable dread blots out the sun

beleaguered by besiegers in a keep with no hope

 

I had a plant, his name was Geoffroy

He dried up when I went away for a bit

Dying of thirst, I proceeded to drown him

This is the irony that shadows my own suffering

 

let my epitaph read:

“There is nothing anyone could have done.”