I can't move or

that itchy buzzing

will stirr;

alarms sounding:

I'm faster,

than a corpse.

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White noise is the cloak my mind wears

to protect me from its darkness.

I'm always elsewhere,

In a place of emptiness.

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I’m wrapped in cling film I’m sure of it:

(unlike sensation)

paralysed and mute, I feel it;

the temptation

to

rot.

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I’ll be sanded away from the inside out,

hollowed, seared, and crushed.

I can only relieve the heaviness

and only by breaking the glass.

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