The aftershocks
started to come
the moment I fell.
I didn't realise
they would return
years later as well.
The beast from
the east bought a round.
Blood on the rocks,
drink it down.
I knew something inside was wrong.
Sounds came in a buzz through my head,
a long fuzzy rush of wine-red blood.
A flurry of thoughts hushed
the thoughts that
had already started forming.
I'd heard this sound another time.
The last time left me bitter,
barely alive.
Fighting to beat away
death's hungry scythe.
Did I have enough fire inside
to go a second round?
A whirling merry-go-round
of colliding images floods my vision.
One minute a mental prison,
flashing lights,
accident and emergency,
wheeled in urgency.
The ward, tubes down
blood choked throat
Gasping for breath
every time I spoke.
God, I needed a smoke.
Long lonely hours
staring at a ceiling
I'd already memorised.
Every crack, every paint flake,
like the pores on my
sunken drained skin.
Unable to move
except when my eyes are closed.
And I was back,
a hangover,
when drink hadn't passed
my lips in years.
The same ceiling from before,
some flakes have dropped,
somewhere under the bed
on the supposedly sterile ward floor.
I C U but no one else sees,
just a nameless nurse
keeping a careful watch over me.
One to one.
Laying prone.
Never alone,
but I may as well have been.
A world of my own.
a never-ending earthquake zone.
Thanks for reading
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