Whispers - silent as the muffled rustling of leaves in the shadowy trees at night,
Wake me up to tell me something, barely audible,
Dr. Mayrose, can't you fix this? Can't your holy presence scare the demons of my darkness away?
You sly devil, you,
Keeping my brain wrapped up tight in this chemical lobotomy-like straightjacket called Thorazine,
That dispels all sense of my humanity and reasoning but does nothing to dispel the blackness that forever encases my normalcy,
Poisoning it to death, slowly - I am losing myself again,
Have you ever been to the market, voices surround you, drown your thoughts?
Gripping your attention the way a black patent leather strap grips your ankles in a pair of lovely stilettos,
My mind is like a market place,
Forever buzzing and swirling into everything and nothing at all, just noise and bustling,
It never stops, it never sleeps,
Always watching and waiting for that supreme moment whilst lying supine in bed at night,
Eyes flittering open and closed, curtains drawn back to reveal the icy moon,
Waiting - for that moment to whisper the magical words into my ear,
"One perfectly placed slice to kill the pain...." and I am off again,
Off to make that perfectly placed slice that cures all of my ills temporarily,
My addiction within myself, my addition to myself,
Beautiful scars upon soft skin decorate me like homemade tattoos,
Tiny mouths that have drooled pain upon my fleshy arms and legs,
Twisted and jagged like my internal hurt,
& like every other addict I spew words of hope and light,
Practically vomiting up the 12-steps of self-recovery to anyone who will listen,
I swear to never let the silver of a razorblade touch my creamy body again,
Yet when the burn begins I rush back to my crack pipe and suck it for all it's worth,
Then lie awake in that same bed,
Satisfied, sated, saturated...
Knowing this miserable affliction will carry me to my grave...