beryl’s chair

i just don’t know anymore, dragging yourself like a crushed bug between shrivelling carrier bags, melting in the rain, the same old rain. Things will be screwed into your bones and cold catheters fed into you and always death coming, black and inarguable and beside every bowl of the same old food, the same mouthful of flesh from the same dumb beast, coldly chewed by the dwindling embers, shivering in the night. They all go out by the same narrow window, naked against an icy moon, scrambling into the gnashing teeth, endless mouths of howling razor wire, all to the same old end. The load I carry is the glimpse I got in the dark of a night when the stars were spilled across my bed of the terrible things happening in the downstairs room where the old armchair had faced the wall, stacked with things nobody would want when you were dead – opticians reminders, tins of custard, hair that might have come from one cat over a long period of time or several cats in a shorter time span.

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