Down

Down the drain, they said.
They were talking about my life.
Down in the dumps, she said.
They were talking about my mood.
Down the street, he said.
They were talking about my home.
Down the back, mum said.
She was talking about the blood.
Down my face, I screamed.
I was complaining about the tears.
Down the slope, I called.
Pointing them to your wrecked, broken body.
Down a long haul through hell, I whispered.
To the darkness as I slipped into death.

Andrea Salt
July, 30, 2002