Six.
I turn the page.
Six.
My eyes scrape over the words,
But I don't think them.
I just see them.
This isn't reading.
Six.
I've forgotten the number now.
It's just a number,
After all.
Six.
I hear the timer in the background;
I told myself I could just read for
five more minutes but
that's a child's excuse.
I'm not even reading.
Tick.
I want it to be over;
Not the minute
or the night
or the book
(though I wouldn't mind if
those ended too)
but I mean my life.
I want to end my pain.
Six.
This isn't living.
I should go upstairs and sleep now but,
strangely,
I can't because I'm embraced
in the warm glow of the fire
and I don't
want to
leave.
Six.
My eyes droop, but they still inch along the page. I turn it again because, I assure myself, just five more minutes.
Six.
The timer goes off a minute late, but I don't hear it.
I'm on the ground, razor in hand,
shaking and assuring myself this isn't the way.
Six.
And I sleep, just as the sixth minute I assured myself I would wait to sleep ends. And it's over. The minute, the book, the night, my life. All over.
Seven.
YOU ARE READING
Walking Into Black
PoetryDon't fear death. It does nothing for you. Death is at every turn; the challenge is if you choose to accept it or not. Don't fear pain. Pain is how you learn. Pain is the side-effect of life. If you live life fearing getting hurt...can you tr...
