Before I bleed

Behind the shades, my tears.

Like black pearls they roll down.

My face has darkened with fears.

My old warm and bright-red friend,

now I can’t request euthanasia.

It’s another breakdown, but it ain’t the end.

Wait. Am I depressed or is it just PMS?

Why after all these years?

Why is there a new melt-down?

I swear I haven’t drunk more than 2 beers.

Always in the never-ending mend,

there’s no more need for anaesthesia.

Quick! Mumble something and hit send.

Message delivered. The worst is over, I must confess.

Steadily, heavily craving my gummy bears.

I’m tempted. Still wearing my dressing gown.

So old I feel after a couple of Smears.

A blade? No, but a cold towel you can lend.

I don’t know if you’d call this synaesthesia:

colours and sounds start to blend.

Whatever, I’m fine. But next time I ask for a hug, please just say YES…

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