Touch

I feel sick. My stomach churns last night's pleasures round and they
are no longer friendly. This morning I wanted to cry or die but
everything is stuck inside me and I'm weak and dizzy. I wish I could
close my eyes and never open them again. Why the fuck am I wasting my
time on trying to heal something ripped apart and bloody? I should
condemn it to the flames; commit my weary body to the ground; earth to
earth, dusk to dusk, carbon to carbon in no hope of a resurrection. I
would ask you to help me but God this fatigue has turned my eyes to
glass and my bones to lead and I just want you to hold me; envelop me
in soft comfort so that I don't have to hurt any more.

I don't believe you know the extent of my sufferings here on earth. I turn from tablets, the swallowed anaesthetic to the seductive joys and the crushing lows.

I am crushed. A suicidal waste beneath a mound of
anguish, all ingrowing anger; a twisted corrupted food for a shafted
mind