The TV is off,
You see a blackness take hold of your throat,
Hands cold as a ghost and eyes devoid of soul,
Terror wears many faces, but its most terrifying form is faceless.
I want to think I shall survive,
But so much goes into just trying to thrive while alive that I see no end but at the edge of a knife,
So I cut, deep and long into the tracks, watching as the very fuel to my fire drips out into the night,
It’s red and hot, like my anger at the people all around me that lie,
It’s thick and quick to dry, unlike my self; stretched so thin and drenched in the muck of denial.
You just want me gone, lost and forlorn for no reason,
You think I’m better off alone and torn, apart from all that I have come to love in these seasons,
I refuse to be yours and owned, but clearly I am losing as quickly as this blood from me flows,
I cannot really contemplate going on and setting things in stone, so leave me be as I fade onto Hades’ shores.
Yours with no clarity,
Evans Mbora Campbell.
Losing Ever So Slightly