Static

The first thing I notice is my lips,
Crusted shut, like a welder’s arc.
My tongue pushes past the seal,
Coarse as a cat's, breath is hot vapour.

A lake of perspiration, legs glide
together. My fingers check, wet,
I’m sweating at night again. Flit
open, the white and black dots scream.

A metaphor, I think, for my heavy
cream brain. I wish it would shock me
back to a semblance of life, but the
velvet couch feels like second skin.

I shiver; the air pricks me now with
covers kicked off. The bottles, a
city-scape against the oppressive hue,
they mock me, there, on that coffee table.

Darkness feeds me relief. There’s still time,
for my body to fix this before tomorrow
slices through the blinds. Never again,
I tell myself. But I know it’s not true.