It is not cold metal, but there is
a weight sitting in the middle of the room
pushing down on the frayed grey carpet
in your bedroom, pulling down
the small twin bed we squeeze in,
A sinkhole sinking
on and on.
Wet black marks on the grey
pillowcase. The two of us (a possible
third) sink in silence, knotted organs
tightening with every white, dry day.
Sinking from crust to core
from night to day
from home to home.
The date on my watch
has not changed in
what feels like weeks (time
moves slower when you are
sinking). The second hand
ticks in place of drips.
Sinking, waiting for
the bloody (or the) carnage.
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