My skin feels as soft as a chinchilla's fur

but my heart is as hard as steel.

Me and myself can't agree on anything.

Anymore I'd rather be talking to a wall.

It won't interrupt me and it keeps me occupied.

The cracks along the doorways show the house is settling.

The cracks on my face show I'm ageing poorly.

I never wanted this curse that runs around my brain like Jekyll.  

Mr. Hyde has been killed. It's a self-inflicted genocide.

I have to brace myself against the front door.

I have to tell myself it's not outside that I'm afraid of;

But the demons in my head scream so loudly when I walk into the sunlight, that I have to run back into the house just to shut them up.

I wish I could glue our mouths shut.

If I'm to escape the borderline, I must take all my pills on time.

I feel shaken after seeing her lying there with the heavy rasping of her struggled breaths.  

I cannot stomach death's excruciating seconds.

Why does she need to suffer?

I finally comprehend Dr. Kevorkian's plan.

If I had courage I'd help her put her misery to an end.

But I'm a coward too scared to make any difference to her.

I can't look anymore.

She's slowly being broken apart.

My empathic tears flow down my flushed cheeks.

I don't know if I'm crying for her or him or me.

But I cry all the time these days.

It's like her body as become a cage which keeps her soul from soaring into heaven.

A couple of days stretch into a lifetime.

We all sit around her waiting so we make awkward conversation because the silence is too oppressive to maintain.

It'll be over soon the doctor's say.

She'll be somewhere better then this hell we live in today.

But to him the hell will only deepen into a dark depression.

We'll disarm for his own saftey and to defuse our fears.

And I'll hope he is able to overcome losing the only two women he's ever loved to what he sees as a cruel God toying with him for fun.

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Ruth Lovejoy's picture

vry powerful and emotional piece. It really speaks from the soul