than mental illness
you see,
it starts in your feet,
feet that are both running from a painful past
and towards a future that you're terrified of,
and some days doubting its existence.
they limp in wide circles,
certain in the knowledge that if the present is a gift,
it better come with a receipt.
it sets up your legs, hollow stalks that have kicked what they can,
with no concrete consequences,
save the sweet and sour bruises on your shins.
half-way in its attempt to consume you, the illness hits your waist;
where it does its best to tear the flesh
of every sense of intimacy you held,
stolen from you to be used as a vessel
for future transmissions.
its progress slows, because it knows there is no rush
serpent-like inside your stomach, it now feels strangely comforting
the knots it ties just feel like spare intestines
that you always knew you had;
any feelings absorbed by this midriff medusa,
modern myths of your own making.
you need no doctor to give the diagnosis
that your heart is infected beyond any intervention;
only alchemy can serve as saviour to the pebble-dashed
dance it makes inside your chest.
from here there is a mercy in its timing,
coursing through your veins like hot margarine,
a sickly yellow oil, soon to reset
steady crawl through lungs and neck
takes control of every breath,
every attempt to explain yourself and right the wrongs
with every word you can summon,
knowing all too well that it's too late;
it's not your voice any more,
lip service to what you used to be.
the cruelty of it all is clear
when you realise that you cannot rest,
eyes stay open, witnessing the soft surrender
of what you thought you were;
hands clasped, pray to gods you don't believe in;
signals sent somewhere unknown
from a hollow head that holds every atom of regret that you've ever felt,
every piece of pain and speck of sadness,
multiplied and spread across a spectrum
light fantastic fades to a monochrome
of f*cking perfect pain.
as it spreads through every part of you,
an incurable reminder that life is terminal