(I literally wrote this about 30 minutes ago. I don't care if it's no good yet, the concept needed to see the surface for a bit. It is an allusion to the sensations of a panic attack...)
Swallowing pills, tiny, blue, white, yellow,
I lay down and my body twists
to smoke, to choke itself, inside out.
He cradles me, my warm tears sliding
through his beard and down his neck,
our bodies intertwined, long and lean as skeletons.
"The visions and revisions"* haunt me.
Once I was so happy, and happy again,
the ghosts of old pierce my back and numb me.
The physical pain of a mind half-chained
to a body which fights itself is frightening,
soaking up moments of an otherwise brilliant being.
The widower, Death, crawls along my spine
and turns off the power to my hand,
Frightened, I heave and sob, pressing harder
into him. And then a voice, "hush, baby,
breathe. you're okay. please breathe." and
from this bed of lovers rises a memory
of a mother and child, slung over,
like a tiny doll, face blue with absence of meaning,
and the mother, pleading, "breathe, baby, breathe."