I’m a junkie

Your words

like heroin –

the pang of the needle

stings the skin

before flooding

my body

with warmth.

 

Arteries and veins

vine around the soul

softly constricting –

comforting my broken pieces.

Screaming –

“you are not alone”

 

Let me be

your junkie

Forever.

Frustration

Frustration lingers

spreads and persists

until you want to claw

your eyes out,

sometimes –

I bash my head against the wall

just to feel some relief,

sometimes –

I urge to scream and scream

until they lock me up

in a mental ward again.

They don’t understand me there either.

Burn

Traumatised and anaesthetised, I feel

numb.

I know you still exist somewhere

buried.

I gaze at the most profound paintings

listen to the most seductive symphonies and I feel

nothing.

 

The only time I feel:

visualising a razor-blade tearing apart my jugular gracing me with peace.

 

How I burn

to rest

in peace.

Hope

I hope that I

do not look back

when I’m old and grey

with disdain

for a life

well wasted.

I hope that this

is not

a mistake.

I hope I’ve not

made too many

wrong turns

to find my way

home.

I hope that this

is not for nothing.

I hope.

I hope.

 

Waiting

I wait –

In this solitary icy cavern of black.

A box of matches for warmth.

Burning them sparingly I wonder and pray –

Can they last out this disgusting winter?

Seconds tick slowly –

each one sawing

deeper and further

into the brain.

I wait

.

.

.

wait to feel the warmth again.