Here I am. Not where I thought I would be Wherever that was. Nor am I what I was Or what I expected to become, Though again, I am unsure Exactly what those expectations were. But they were not this, that much I know. I am salted earth My fields gone fallow. Beneath closed lids My body burns and blazes. But open I am merely a shaking thing, afraid. In the bleakest moments, Which come with increasing frequency, As if some door has been opened That cannot be shut, In the bleakest moments, I hear the creak of load bearing beams As they threaten to bend beneath the weight Of what I fear Is a mind gone septic. I walk about And as I raise my arm to turn a page, Unlock a door, Raise a fork to my lips, I feel the hushed roar of the sepsis flooding my body Weighing upon my limbs Until a page weighs as much as a life, And I just want to lay my body down Drag my mind off its hamster wheel And let the sick-sodden pieces rest. But I’ve made promises I am myself, a promised embodied, However unwilling, to some, And to cease to answer The insistent demands of life Would be to let down the living Whose expectations are at least resilient, And to disappoint the expectations, however vague, Of the deceased me that was, Whose sad fingers brush against the inside of my skull Demanding satisfaction.