The pain has an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at my stomach. There's nausea too, just enough to make me hold onto a table for support and breath slow.
I've often prized myself in ignoring pain and just rocking on regardless, but that just isn't possible right now. It owns me, dominates every thought, controls every action.
Pain sears through my abdomen better than a branding iron, my mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion. The pain isn't sharp like a needle point or a knife, it burns around my innards better than boiling water.
Everything feels scolded and, move or not, I'm in more pain than I could have ever imagined was possible. A bullet would be a mercy right now but an increase in the sickly morphine is the best I can hope for.
I walk like my limbs don't really belong to me and each step is a negotiation rather than an order. Moving without pain, without aches, was just one thing I used to take for granted. Now my muscles feel as though they have been flash-burned with acid from the inside - just sufficient to make them move like the living cells have been replaced by aging rubber bands, thick and twisted. Everything hurts now.
Every damn thing. All I seem to do is fumble for the little white pills, my mind already clamoring for the pain relief to come. It isn't that my suffering is acute, more that it never leaves me unless I am asleep. Those pills are little trap doors into moments of bliss, a few hours of tranquility.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Withered Writing
PoetryI write because my soul lies beneath the ink. And with every slip of my pen, sparks return to exhale passion and reason into my writing. (This book has become my therapy, and it will either lead me to get better. Or lead me to death.)
