This is not a thought.
It is a spiked ball that rolls restless and pin-pricks
down
each
vertebra
till it lodges
and waits,
for sleep, for sober, for silence, then pierces so
one by
one by
one
more pour in.
A dam breaks with neglect,
so too this vessel,
fit to burst.
When it does there’ll be no red flag,
just a smoulder of regret and
a promise.
Never again.
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