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.