Of all the nights I have lived through this has felt the lowest. I have no suicidal inclinations where I once did, I have typical levels of anxiety but the weight of depression hangs from all my limbs and moving parts.
I don’t feel mechanised like I used to, I feel limber and I feel strained.
My eyelids are heavy and pleading to close but I am not ready for sleep yet. My neck feels as though my head has ballooned to contain a tonne of feathers and my feet drag along beneath me saying,
“Please no, please no more of this stepping. We are small. We are not mighty.”
Footfalls aren’t effortless in this moment, nothing is and I’m slipping under.
It’s the kind of night I imagine every other person in the world to be crawling amongst covers and limbs of their lovers. Where I am in solitude and cannot but warm my own hands.
I have bad circulation and odd proportions.
I am the goddess of structure and certainty.
Tears are careening down these solemn cheeks like bad hitmen down a highway and I am angry for being so weak, breaking so fast.
Inside my skull are dreams and desertion. All sickly sweet crème brulée but when you crack that torched surface your spoon dives deep into sticky black tar and what follows your spoon is your hand, then your arm, your shoulders, neck and torso next.
Before you know it you’ve been sucked into that ramekin and looking up the world seems pointless through the rim.
Tonight the world has fallen apart and I see nothing beyond my hands.
Tomorrow these hands will tear life apart.