wisefool

Your grip on me is not gentle.

At times, I feel my cells starving
as you grasp me tighter.

The things you want me to hold
always wisp away at my fingertips.
I want them as badly as you.

For, if I clasp them,
your strangulation
turns
into embrace;
and blood fills my head and my heart.

My chemicals burst forth with joy,
like party poppers on the eve of a New Year,
and I am
doused with dopamine
confetti'd with catecholamines
soaked with serotonin.

Yet, you choke me of this relief.

Leave me.

Relinquish me to my own toil.
To reap what I choose to sow.

For, as I sow your sins,

I am ischemic, blue and cold;

I am atrophied, dry and old;

Necrosed by your stranglehold.

__________________
Say hello to my frontal lobe.