Purgatorial reflections

Nondescript train station, Melbourne.

The road is still long

My hair is still short

I’ve got miles to go

But by which compass do I obey

Entwined in my mind

Are the thoughts of these and the thoughts of those

So heavily that the ends I cannot distinguish

I drag my weary bones through the day

I’m suspended, my fragile wings hung in amber

Movement is just an aftertaste

“Idiot!” I yell, alone. Only the echo renders this cry true

Yet despite the misty solitude, I shun the outstretched hand

This is my journey

Liquid depression between my fingers

I grasp it tightly

So the boy with the soft mouth can’t wrest it away

I don’t deserve him

How can someone be the cure and the depressant

The lights are too bright in the injecting room

Fluorescent and contradicting, administer me fatigue

Flee, I should run

Hey don’t look at me like that

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