Sludge

Sludge

I've been sitting here with my pen

thinking hard of ways to describe

how sludge feels. It's not a particularly 

beautiful word. It's not made with 

poetry in mind, the same way my mind 

was. Can I put a bow on that 

slick and sticky feeling? A flourish 

onto the knowledge of being stuck

and slowly sliding under? There's

no fancy way of spelling

the ways in which my brain feels 

both overrun and forgotten. 

Despite our differences, that

sludge and I are married now. We said

our vows, one random Thursday 

afternoon in a random month

and random year. We promised each 

other nothing in that already 

darkened room because we had 

nothing there to give. All I had 

was myself. All they had was also me 

and they already had me devoured.

I was the something old, something new,

something borrowed and something blue.

I hated every second they invaded

my brain to demand more of my time

and space. More of anything 

that made me me, so they could 

replace it with everything that was them.

There's a fondness in familiar hatred. 

A complacency in mutual destruction.

You cannot stop growing closer when 

you are invaded. 

I no longer remember how it feels to 

feel alive. All I feel is bruised. For now, 

being nothing still feels less scary than

dying. Maybe this poem wasn't meant to 

be beautiful.