ManicWorld Magazine

It’s morning and I wake in a body who feels like a malicious stranger.
Feverish and tired, holding me down as I try to rise.
I fight for every step; the effort it takes to change my socks and wash my face is a drain that will
last the rest of the day.
And these things…these Simple Things
They take from me, one by one.
Two by two.
Easy Things.
They all come with price tags I struggle to pay,
Things so often taken for granted by those who don’t have a body laden with betrayal and
exhaustion.
I’m mugged in the dour alleys of my own home at the dull end of a rusty, energy-thieving knife
Unvacuumed corners.
Unwashed dishes
All my pockets, turned for the picking.
Loose change, and looser teeth trying to fill a moment not yet stolen.
Thoughts? Missing in a pile of unwritten pages.
Notions, stillborn.
A restful sleep? The fanciful wish this scavenging malaise leaves dying behind the dumpster.
I bleed out,
Threadbare and bare.
There is nothing left.
Only the knowledge that I can’t keep going like this.
Desolate, forlorn.
Alone
Painfully in debt to both a past and a future I haven’t even reached yet.
I want so desperately to grasp my dreams, but everything seems so futile and out of reach.
When on any given day there is no energy to tie my shoes, or warm my leftover food,
With my hands and all my thoughts already so drained and perilously raw.
I’m not even sure I can clutch the straws.