There is a thumping in my chest
Signaling the passing of time
As it leaks out of my hands
Like water pouring over my fingers.
There is a darkness that covers my pupils.
No one else can see it
So they are unaware of my blindness.
Blankness. Blackness. Blindness.
The thumping in my chest
Pulls me towards a bowl of illness.
Flashes of red tears,
Crimson marking cotton cloth.
I am no good. I have decided
To paint the bowl with layers
And layers and layers to show
Nesting parts, which I pretend to be.
Red and white chunks contrast nicely
I conclude as I pull the silver knob,
And watch as my insides spiral downward
Into another realm of nothingness.