soiled & sore

"I am always with myself,

and it is I who am my tormentor."

- Leo Tolstoy

with stiffened fingers

you push your gin around

the ache you feel

won't drown

this troubled cloudy mood

condensed, still thickening

it's hard to let the sunlight in

and when your mud caked boots

grew roots downward

through scarred laminate flooring

you sipped your gin

deeper, deeper your roots progressed

questing for anchorage

but I can't grasp onto anything

I reach upwards for your ankles

to pull me through

... I can't keep this fight going...

and my muddy fingers turn raw

grasping for a trapdoor

to any place but this world

gin drops rain

and the slick soil swallows

... I know I'm losing my mind...

with ripped fingertips

I swirl my gin and sniff

the aroma of ammonia saturates

thickens and condenses around me

sipping my gin

i close my eyes and grin,

the taste of Christmas

fills me once again.

©️Meg. December 2, 2020.