My god I feel wretched

Like an old swamp left to collect the season’s rain

Dirty water

Crawling with dirty things

Or an abandoned desert

Dry and arid as the bones of my skull

Untouched by any moist hand

 

My god I feel wretched

My eyes are tight elastic bands

All puffed out like fresh pastry

Or sour tarts

Skin smooth with salty tears

And stained with pains of many years

Tissue does nothing for old anxieties

 

My god I feel wretched

Spine catching my shivery back

Pressing against the radiator to kill the chill

Nose tingling with the bitter frost of mid-March

The winds blow a resentful cacophony of discontent

Things bother me

Things that I daren’t think about

The spring is mournful

And I am its helpless victim

 

My god I feel wretched

The sound of broken glass outside my window

Alerts me to the passing world

My red nail varnish is chipped and neglected

Inside is in need of deep cleansing

 

Aching skull tender head

My mouth turns down in a sulky frown

Thoughtless and uninterested

I scratch my lip with my flaking nails

Massaging the bridge of tension from my brows

The tangled ivy of my shoulders strangles my neck

Dead leaves

Old stresses

Tears penetrate the grey cells

Seem to wash away any real thoughts

Between a red wig and a yellow fluffy pen

A blank space where I can concentrate on the not-very-important things

My unmade bed is my unmade head

My bamboo stands tall and proud, unlike my shrinking self

 

My god I feel wretched

Let the day be easy on me

Heat pipes rumble to keep me warm

And drowsy enough to kid myself I’m dreaming.

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