July 1999

My wrists are neat and trim
I dont reconise the hands
They are attached skin and tendon
They must be mine.

Why dont I see them as mine
Perhaps the white pills...
disguise my own skin,
Would I let them do that.

My head hurts,
my sub-consious rules
The pills in my hand
might just give me the relief.

So, again, I look down
they are still there amongst the pink
Slowly they disintigrate
I must not give in.

I sleep, closing my eyes at last
But, I do wake up
I must have been dreaming
My physical and spiritual so apart.

I want my body back, my spririt to return,
life to come home.
I am so tired
This is too hard.