By: Max Migdail
Sometimes I don’t feel like myself.
And the pounding won’t stop after
Days and days
So I remove it all; the breath,
The food, the life.
Till all I’m left with is the pounding
And my skeleton,
And still I’m not me.
So I sit
For however long it takes,
Until, I realize I don’t remember what “I” feel like anymore.
So I’m left floundering
On the banks of my own consciousness.
Braying for someone out there to find me.
My nails grow long and
The dirt accumulates
It’s a mud bath: cool and relaxing.
I let myself sink in and I
Breathe deeper than ever.
I stop thrashing and let the thick water-that’s-not-quite-water rush down my throat and sate my
Dense, chunky, mealy, and curdled it goes down far smoother that it has any right to;
Until it’s coated me, inside and out, none of me untouched.
And I stay there, till either I recall that I can’t breathe anymore,
Or someone finds me,
Or someone joins me,
And there isn’t enough oxygen
And I’m still sitting, waiting, and yet, nothing.
So eventually I get up.
I walk away,
Trailing mud into my home.