Exsanguination

Every time I start to climb out of the hole
Archons pull me back at the speed of light
toward the abysmal memory foam at the bottom.
Some frolicking genie tramples on my fingertips
on their way to grant a wish to someone more deserving.
It's comfortable in the darkness where the spot has taken my form.

My mother was diagnosed with bipolar when she was a young woman.
I have memories of psychosis feeding on her angelic being.
I often wonder if I hadn't spent my 20s in such solitude
if that same torment would have been exposed.
It is in that solitude, in that dark abyss that I cope.

Someone once told her daughter
she would have a sad life if she stayed with me.
And someone once told me I have a bad spirit in me.
They were right. Oh, they were right.

My eyes shed crocodile tears
as my mouth feeds on my own heart,
bleating like a lame fawn.
My mind betrays my skull.

I run from my past and future convincing myself
I am living in the present like some enlightened being.  
I often fantasize about bleeding myself dry of emotion
like a butcher exsanguinating livestock in an abattoir.