Ida

I wouldn’t feel a thing. Detached in my own perpetual state where everything ceaselessly stays in its place. In the yellow walls I secure my own stay. The defining line of love and hate would bleed so fine becoming the same. All the wiles would catch my own feet, costing a limb just to set myself free, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. In my hell I’d play all my banes. Conversations with who I could have been. Slitting the wrists of the hands of the clock. Stitching the wrists of the hands of the clock. Year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve. Complacent and fully aware, ceaselessly year after year after year. I’d get what I deserve.