It wouldn’t start, it wouldn’t start. I crammed my brain but it wouldn’t start. A lonely melancholy fog envelops my morphine addled brain. Eclectic stabs of pain flex my dull continence with the grimace. The perfect grimace, my face is a mix of pain, disapproval, and disgust. All my emotion is carved with this constant erosion, which ebbs strong and soft. I claw for a way to describe this perpetual twisting, stabbing, and broken-glassing, which drips and rips me day to day, wave after wave. Maybe if I understand my torment’s name, I can call to it and ask it for clemency. It is an it, for it has no empathy. It is a slow and strong force of reality, like gravity. It is and it defines the way of every day. No defying this gravity, it will be respected. It will be coddled. I heat-blanket it. I elevate and warm-bath it. I work around it's desires and whims. I cry to ask what sins, I have committed to deserve this sentence.
The pain finds it's way up may leg and twist my stomach. I reach for the pills that used to soften my tormentor's screams. Now, they just muffle. There is a love affair between my tormentor and my pills. They together like king and queen dictate their twisted desires of how I will live. They will sequester me from living, creating a constant tiring need for daily distraction.
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