I have got to get out of here, get going, get moving, do something. Restlessness is setting in again (posing as fatigue). I want to be around people again. People my age, people I like. I need to get my hands dirty (figuratively). The theory of learning by solitude is great. However, its practice is trying.

What begins as a simple itch, a longing
soon turns to me and offers
another
drink. Which, with shaking hand,
I accept.
There is only one way to delay
this disease but I can't swallow anymore
of the lies I'm telling
or the pills I'm taking.

They begin to stick in my throat
and bleed through my skin.
My unherded thoughts rip
through the pores of my scalp
itching like lice.

The panic rises and readys to take the controls.
Hands flutter and smooth poison skin.
These clothes are too heavy
it's too hot
skin flares and burns and cannot be soothed.
My hands fly across my body
trying to keep everything inside
where it belongs.

My hair is falling out.
My nails are rotting in their beds.
Gums race back from teeth
making a mouth like slack-jawed roadkill.

If you could see this feeling;
dark ink suspended in the air around me,
like blood dropped in water;
a smokers haze,
a cancer patients death smell.

I can't hold my breath long enough
to dive under
and so my mind sets off alarms,
the traps I set for myself
-spring-
one by one and all at once

and I've forgotten the safety net.