Frank Sinatra's last words were
(I'm losin').
That's the thing they don't tell you
about depression,
the thing that you try never
to tell yourself.
You're mentally ill now, part of the club;
but you never let yourself think sickness,
never admit it. You're sick.
You're sick, I stand in front of the mirror
every morning, check the bags under
my eyes and the tremors in my fingertips.
You're sick.
Don't get arrested today,
you'll smudge the prints, you're shaking.
Hold out your hands flat, you're
watching minescule mountain ranges
crumbling down.
You're sick. The doctors say there are
pills to take and words to s
Click, click, click. The bones in my fingers clockface and you want a way out.
Let me talk to you about robots, about machines and gears and
tiptapticktackclickclacking on metal, ball joints in sockets and whirring complexities. Let me
talk to you about metal and man and bad analogies until the sun comes down. Artifical
Intelligence, the voice in the roof that does what it's told and never argues,
that thinks five times faster than you but never for itself. Imaginary friend made real,
made useful.
Thumb to my neck, check pulse, two three.
In the old stories we have giants and terrible awful broken people who crack open ribcages
like
i've been sitting in my little castle
for years
it's been lonely
just me, my reflection
and thoughts
-
it's already jagged
i can already pick pieces of
you i'd smash
and others i'd keep
trying to stop but
it's not the same
when you fall in love with your
first love, you are innocent
you believe it will last
an eternity
you don't think the butterflies will
ever stop dancing
but when first love is stolen
you grow cold
and you expect less and less
come every heartbreak
and every time someone new
comes along, instead of loving
every piece of them you can only
pick out pieces you want gone
so what's left over?
-
i told