You've sunk in this couch for what feels like years

hiding an eternity burnt on your wrist.

Inquisitive eyes peer at the gears

in your head to discern what makes you tick.

With repeated questions and hinted guile

they ask of your plans to die.

No, no plans as of now, you smile.

Your every word is a lie.

Momma was like this before

you were even a hint in her body.

To know this now rocks the core

you were using to keep steady.

Sleep comes seldom, at most

when nightmares plague the night.

Life starts to come only in triple doses

to keep your hands solid, your feet light.

Then the pills don't work, peace won't come.

Pain spreads around like fire, or cancer,

burning hot and cold until fingers grow numb.

Still you sink in the couch and wait for an answer.