Most of the time, it comes
by Joyelle Osburn
Moments clash like waves
of cutting tide.
I spill without alarm.
The force of ten thousand thieves
steal my psyche; using my pain
to prey the dead.
I wake with forty winks, through
the stale night, only to skid
into this exact coma; screaming;
sweating; swallowing my tongue.
Most the time, I can't breathe.
I feel dyspeptic; thoughts are forever
someplace not precisely where
they ought to be.
Spikes take hold of my brain;
cooked and mawkish.
The only time I feel safe
is when I smash myself out
to rest; take arsenic to slumber.
Even when the shafts of daylight
touch down, I vomit negativity;
eating; spewing anew.
To experience me is to feel maimed.
Decapitated. To smell me is to smell
moldering flesh. Stagnant.
There is no escaping insecurity.
Vacancy must soon murder my life;
making me free.
In the meantime, I sit here