Birth

The words follow the outline of the darkness. As it shapes and is shaped by the weight of my apathy. There is no bargaining in this pain monopoly. There is no grace in the sprint of this crippled heart. Just a growing distance between the start and the finish.

Could I tell myself? Would I listen. If I told myself this isn't a lonely life. This is just the only life I know how to have.

Would it be better to have none at all. Pop it like a swollen blister and wait until every drop of pus has drained from it. Maybe, yea, I suppose it would.

Words can only heal so much and then the rest leaves such a big tumor. This poor life condemned to be mine. I feel sorry for it. I grow on it like cancer. Smothering anything good there might've been.

This lone, last friend of mine offers no more solace. Even alcohol does nothing for me now. I'm not drinking anymore. I'm just echoing the motions that once changed me.

Only they don't anymore. Nothing does. The night scowls and the words wince. And the sentences are born. But the cord remains uncut.

Their tiny faces turning blue. Their miniature lungs shrivelling. As they wait to be cleansed. And I hold the cloth, but my hands only shake uselessly as they slowly suffocate.

**My apologies... I realize 'pain monopoly' is a line from a metallica song. Master of Puppets I believe.