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…