High-Functioning

 

Coping mechanisms in multitudes, machinelike through daily motion,

Muscular atrophy, the smell of my unclean anatomy 

Glacial emotions, frozen gears in a metallic heart, biter oil coagulates,

Stygian visage, my bed is a comfortable catacomb.

My spine twisted, black ribbons interweaving disc,  rising,

Mind is an obsidian pool, it births entities that haunt yet succor me,

A dark muse is shadowy, creeps over my shoulder,

Thick black oil drips from its mouth as it whispers,

Onto my shoulders, a stinging, transfiguration.

I am a wraith with a sanguine face,

Blank stare, wide smile,

I can’t fight the urge to obscure affliction,

Forthwith robotic notes: “I am fine”.

Bread molds in the cupboards, wine bottles remain empty

Growing pale,  helios nevermore, a capsule for that,

But a compound for each, starvation, anxiety, isolation, fervor,

Swallow pearls, tablets, emeralds, pills, agate, rubies, opals, 

Until machine starts once more, metallic heart puts on the mask again.

Each day I rake myself up, rags, sewn into a sweater

Oh how amusing, how pleasant, he’s so affable

Death is impressed, so adept at concealing,

The black stench, of his sadistic kiss.

He hugs me from behind, lulls me into bed,

A lover's comforting grip, venereal, cuddled up in a sepulcher of masochistic bliss.