Silver Tray

The flowers are croaking and poking into my feet
Like needles
Bruises
Purple track marks of loss
Like the line in my ankle which will not fade
There are eight days left
Eight days
Filled up by empty noise
The labour of nothingness played out in three rooms
The bathroom
The dining room
And room 23
How I loath room 23
I look at my face in the silver tray
Upside down
Eating soup in this place of strangers
Time becomes elastic as I hear the sounds of an emergency
But not mine
Two policemen stand outside the window
Maybe they are upside down too
I want to go to them and say
Is this ok
Am I ok
Please help
But I know that would be futile
Instead I go to St Peter
He has no keys
Not for me
There are no keys for the doors that lock me in
Locked
In a head I would like to cancel
In time I would like to stop
In breath that is relentless
Pointless
It kills me
To speak
I know my truth is not good enough
I carry it until it overflows
And becomes tears
Piles of ash in the feast at his feet
How much of the world I carry
On this tiny silver tray
Which hides my faces on one side
And confronts me on the other
I want to whisper
Here I am
In the tray
Behind the frosted glass of room 23
Here I am
Sitting on a bed as sharp as needles
Falling like the petals on a flower
As cold and loss punch through its tiny veins.