A first-draft attempt at articulating myself a few months back when I started getting pretty regular (and horrendous) migraines. I forgot this was on my computer, and I quite like it. It's quirky.
Head full of electricity, ribbons, pulses,
Vibrating under a porcelain skill,
Eyelids twitching beneath the bulb,
Flicker like a moth’s wing.
Jigsaws of dreams, nightmares,
The static of a radio, the purgatory between stations.
Thinking of empty spaces.
The chaos of movement,
The pandemonium of
silence.
Those moments that define you, shape you, mould you:
Cradling your own heart in your palms.
Scrubbing at blood that seeps into the grouting,
that void between the bathroom tiles.
When the crescendo isn’t a purge,
A bottle of vodka, a packet of Marlboro Reds,
My feet won’t leave the ground.
My shoes don’t leave a footprint.
My touch leaves no impression.
But here I am.
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