clutches

Mostly these days I wish I was dreaming, at least when I’m not wishing I was dead. The hours gnaw my bones with languor, savoring every wince and ache. The days amble past with spit and sneers, snuffing last lingering hopes, seeding pain between blood and ghost in lazy strings, the sharpness of the sun leaping off the windows of a passing train. I am sick and I am seething, beaten to pieces by being, torn apart about the soul. When I sleep I am brutally alone, stuck in the cage of my own clutches, bony shoulders and cold hands. Dusk and dawn, the curtains drawn, switches turned off or on. 

Look, I’m sorry that I ever met you. I’m sorry that I ever got this far. Nothing tender even in the dreaming. Nothing much but numb or hurt. The little that I’m left with and the whole lot harder to come, the calendar another dog, another galaxy. The snakes and sticks we reason with, the perfect illumination of every emptied shelf. Now all I am is out to sea. Now I’m only time doling out the sentence in bruises and in breaks. Staying where the words don’t work, front row for the train wreck that’s assured.

So I lay me down to sleep, curled on my left side, pillows pinned down by my heavy head and the crick in my neck. I pull my tatty blankets up around my sore shoulders, the worn out sleeping bag and the consolation quilt, all cough and huddle wrestling down the relax. Once I held a pillow tight, placeholder for my misplaced lover. Now lovers are over, and I clutch tight my own flesh and bones. Oh lost love, oh great empty, gathering chasm and gaping nirvana. Now the night comes early. Now the ache opens up its heart. Hold tight this fearful creature, hold close this inevitable end.