I had three more days
72 hours in my sparkling, delusional cocoon
Before spreading mangled wings and stepping back into the mire of congealed and
Dead
Decayed
Hope
Like standing in a vast, sterile room that echoes in my ear all the dirty twisted vile concoctions of OtherMe at her most desperate, most dire
He’s just waiting out the inevitable clock
She’s mostly dead anyway
When is mental illness not mental illness?
When it’s the agonizing pain of truth?
Crushing weight somehow from the floor up
Swallowing from below as I gasp above
No hands to grasp but my own mutinous claws which stretch only to wrap about me again
I see his face as his mouth moves
Enough to say
It doesn’t really matter anyway
Now does it