May I Be Excused?

The Thought usually makes me gag
but this time it tells me to swallow
and make sure they go down.
It says that my marks are not deep enough
to even threaten the trembling skin.
“Do not think,” says the Thought.
“Use the sink,” says the Thought.
I’m past the brink. I had thought
I was well-minded, generous, strong. Well, minded,
I was wrong.

It says that I do not sleep enough
to think properly about what I’m to do,
but sand-filled eyes do not affect the Thought
and its everlasting hue.
I cannot weep - enough!
Double check the locks.
I am a heap of tough
and mangled sheets, loosely strung together.

There is something thick dripping on the ground
as another something falls loudly, without sound
in my ears for all I hear is the pound
of my heart, or the door - I’m not sure.
Why am I on the floor?
There is something glowing under the door but I cannot grasp it, for
the Thought tells it to leave.

I cannot move, so I sit there in silence with my head bobbing into something cold:
Those are my hands.
There is nothing for me to hold and my eyes look at the limp subjects below:
Those are my hands.