the clock strikes five, and then there was one.
bathroom floor. feels cold. unnaturally perfect. comforting. alone.
fingers pointing to every tile—faded pink against mouldy lavender
grimly counting the grimy walls peddling for some peace of mind
mindless indulgence, please don’t run out, pleaseplease…but it does
148 tiles. not mine. five sleeping bodies outside, blissfully unaware
five dreams i struggle not to rudely wake up with my silent screams
one. one face. hounding the very verge of my panicked wiles
melting me into an incomprehensible mess. maddening, blaming
the perpetrator of the crime. blue. perfect blue. haunting blue
angel blue with cumulous hair, have you ever seen golden clouds
before? sweet and dimpled, stifle back a sour laugh, i’m falling before
i realise that i can’t fly, oh shit oh god, i can’t fucking fly—!
pulled back. 148 tiles. small cube. no sky. hell below. my shivering hands
prayer. tired kind of mantra, no don’t want this anymore, please i
just want to be okay, please i just want it all to stop stop stop stoppp
numb but hurt, reduced to fine shreds on 28 of the 148 dirty tiles
five unconscious bodies, enviously euphorically ignorant, another storm
but not from outside, it’s too chilly for that, my eyes blur as they fog over but
better than sorry little pissbaby tears trickling, i have to face this now anyway
there’s no proper decorum for dismantled fools like me. only life. only life.
light flickers shut. 148 tiles hide beneath the shadows. five bodies toss fitfully. one.
the clock strikes six, and then there were none.