Drawn from sleep

I am born

out of my dark-cave

into industrial white light

and porcelain.

A world

where the floor

is more pleasant to look at

than the truth

and yellow leaves

hide dead things

like a cemetery

disguised as a play-park.

Fingers claw at my

red-light lungs

while skirting boards

hold up the walls

and solid untruths

lean beneath my feet.

I try so hard to be fine

but I cannot stop

from counting the days

until I break

and I fear the fear

that is to come.

They tell me everything’s okay:

flush away anything

that isn’t right.

But how

can you

flush

away

an

idea

?