Bloody friend

My friend makes me leave the house.
Its 11:30 at night but I need to get out of here.
We walk to the park, every step a staggering torment.
I cannot explain to him how much energy,
how much effort it takes to move,
to keep my head upright.

I sit down, lie. I stare at the sky.
It is dark, cloudy, starless, obscured.
My friend tells me I cannot lie here.
He drags me up, walking again.
To the park.

I have no energy,
I cannot be bothered,
I do not care.
Shadows play on the buildings, the slides, the bars.
Dark spirits in all my corners, behind my eyes.

He moves me like a sad doll,
a paltry imitation of life.
I sit on the swings, the roundabout.
Even in my hideous state I see the irony:
a children’s playground, primary coloured fun and gaudy,
a tiny freak, brittle suicidal pale.
Eerie fairground music fills my ears
and I laugh and laugh and laugh.
I cannot explain how much I want to die.

Broken glass at the bus stop is made
for carving my pain onto my body,
maybe then people might understand the things
I am barely holding onto inside myself.

I have run out of books in my minds library
into which to scratch scrawled ramblings in my own blood,
and now I’m just piling all the furniture
into the centre of the room as a pyre.

I sit with my friend at the bus stop and cry.
My tears make friends with the rain.
I find it increasingly hard to speak,
to move my legs one in front of each other.
All my energy is gone, drained,
a puppet abandoned by it’s master.

We go back to his place.
Stare at the ceiling together.
I show him my bandages,
their bloody friends beneath.
Finally, finally, we talk.

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