It is in the small hours like these
that I feel like destroying myself. You
all think you want to die, one of you calling out
to me in your pain, the third one of you in
few weeks. I beg and I plead and I shout and
when you cannot see me, after (or maybe
in the middle of) guiding you through this crisis, I
will break down and sob in terror and anger
at my helplessness. The glue I use to hold
you together is harvested directly from my own
disgustingly weak being. As I am trying to solidify
your world, I myself am dissolving. Please
don't die, none of you, your loss and my failure
would create a monster to devour and utterly
destroy what is left of me.

Words like ants, running
up and down my arms, scrawled
blindly in the middle of
the night, when ideas come calling to tap
in my tired mind. Black ink, blue
ink, green ink, brown ink, colors
seeping through my skin in a rainbow
of painful letters until my blood
sings the lines of my poetry, mixing
with my ink until I think words
must flow naturally though my veins. If ink
is to become my blood, how long
until my ink runs out and my blood
starts to become only my red ink?

Like a sponge, latching on
to anything.
Squirreling everything away inside
Its heart, porous,
with all the holes. Maybe
They can be filled like this.
They can't.

Eventually, we put the sponge under
Pressure.
And then watch,
Sickened,
As everything hidden away in the
         porous heart of a sponge
Comes gushing out.