By Inches
The day is creeping through me. Each minute hooks its claws into my chest and pulls its 60 pounds up. They dig their puny nails and twist them when they feel insecure, about to fall. But their hold is heroic and inescapable. I can feel the mass of them dragging down as they clutch at my breast. Each tears through me. It is death by inches, incremental suicide. My cheek is turned. Pacifist I do not enlist but wait, watch as weight rips drips of blood out of miniscule welts. My computer clock drains me. My fingertails have turned blue. It could go on for years and years or maybe centuries, but the days will bleed me dry.
Sometimes they slip. Then there is a flurry of scratching and pawing as the minutes try to keep from sliding down into the ditch of my stomach. I do not want them in my stomach either. They sit there, resting for a spell as they gather energy to continue the crawl, fight the uphill battle to five o'clock. Or they foment into indigestible hours. The minutes give me a bellyache. I cannot excrete time.
Sometimes they slip. Then there is a flurry of scratching and pawing as the minutes try to keep from sliding down into the ditch of my stomach. I do not want them in my stomach either. They sit there, resting for a spell as they gather energy to continue the crawl, fight the uphill battle to five o'clock. Or they foment into indigestible hours. The minutes give me a bellyache. I cannot excrete time.
