Near-paralysis, stomach down on a hotel bed, a
belt on my backside till both it and my face turned red.
A phone out of reach, you tasting like salty bleach—
—your amyl-fueled rage, your narcissism late-stage.
Don’t you ever get sick of a weakling gold rush?
Don’t you ever get sick of not feeling all that much?
The dying still feel and dream, still bloodily scream.
But what would you know, you wouldn’t even notice a moonbeam.
My tears turned to stone, ’cause those you can’t condone.
Underneath the frozen pillow was an unreachable phone.
I’ll scream, I’ll shake, I’ll shiver, I don’t care if I quiver.
Even if you leave me as nothing more than a sliver.
I’ll scream, I’ll shake, I’ll shiver, I don’t care if I quiver.
I can do it all as you sit there and leave me to wither.
I needed a blanket, I needed a hug, I needed a shoulder–
–even when the last of your soul started to smoulder.
I needed a blanket, I needed a hug, I needed a shoulder–
–but you couldn’t see, even as I lie there, growing much colder.
You wouldn’t notice even if I was long-dead
with my face all pallor, but my backside still red.
– Christine Byczkiewicz
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Photo by Dawid Tkocz on Unsplash