I cannot be this person anymore. I have always known deep down in my biology , by God’s hand I would be carried here.
My forgiving soul grown tired. I cannot stand to forgive you anymore, try as I might.
Hark; you may not hear me through the wooden door
I cannot adore you as I have done afore.
The sun shines on my temples for it is ignorant. It knows not of the wreck I will soon create.
I will lay here for it is my coffin, surrounded by the off white porcelain in the only room in the house with a lock.
The discomfort ravages my flesh, the hard edges digging in. I cannot rest my neck here; I cannot give it the solace it deserves for the burden of carrying my head, my brain and my thoughts.
This weary homestead, does not grow any younger. I’ve been chipping the paint ritualistically at every morning coffee.
This bathing vessel can barely contain me. I too will peel and fold to be but a mess on the tiled floors to swept away.
I too have come to occupy space I cannot manage.
I know only to leave from this ditch we have dug.
The pain I emblazon yields no longer
To warm water
– Mina Wallis