It's emotional sickness,
hinted with a slice of physical weakness,
and now I can't control my hands,
nor my heart.

I am stranded in this go between
a river catching on fire,
and cataracts, seen in black and white.
Sitting on the overpass.

It's the suicide handbook,
and notes stuck in the pages,
bookmarks for good measure,
like sticks and stones,
and dirt and roses.