Tonight's Poet Corner: This Isn't The End

This Isn't The End
by Belinda Roddie

Okay, so I'm half dead
inside by 1:15, and I'm
drinking water like it's
something far stronger than
itself. I've tied my fingers in knots

and I feel like I'm overreacting
to every speck of mild, dusty stimuli -
like the way my eye burns and waters
just from the glare of the sun.

Like Icharus, but he didn't have
to fly too close to the thing
after all. He just had to stare at it.

If this is how I'm meant to
unravel, at least be sympathetic
and let me unspool offstage,
away from an entertained audience.
I'm tired of counting the roses

left in the shape of mockery
outside my dressing room. If
I can just be resuscitated after
the final thread has descended,
that'd be much appreciated. Each

frayed edge is a reminder of how
little I've honestly sacrificed,
yet how much I've eroded from
the most minute of my personal burden.