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.