It is hard to draw a translation of my meltdowns, but this sort of represents me in “recovery mode”, wrapped in my proverbial cocoon.

Tired beyond the edge of existence,

Bones feel slow and hollow,

Head scarcely able to make any sense.

Meltdown aftermath…

Sick to my stomach with the

Overboiled ooze that is your wrath.

Here I sit in the daze of another day’s

Revelation hangover,

Eyes glazed by emotion’s dragging parade.

Your harangue still rings the ear spaces

Where you invaded.

I know you want it all to gloss

Like a fancy chocolate ganache,

But, ah, the cake underneath still

Tastes bitter,

My insides still pulse with

A churning hot river,

My throat ripped raw,

Voice reduced to an incoherent quiver.

And this cocoon, this inner retreat?

Well, it won’t fade at your moment’s whim,

Nor your resentfully dim request

I cease my need for a catatonic stim.

Just because I am not able to exercise your 

Hurdle-past-the-hurts rhythm

Does not mean you need to knock

What I need to keep me mentally able to 

Swing from limb to limb….

Advertisements