5 AM Therapy
It’s 5 am, Sunday.
3 hours from the part drunk that I used to be.
Woken up by another stint of fear and anxiety
That followed me home with the boy lurking silently.
I try to fathom motives hidden
I’m bed bound, bedridden.
Paralysed by overwhelming thoughts normally forbidden,
My mind is confined to the walls of his prison.
Trying to realign my confidence,
Doubting the state of my competence.
Out loud I slowly lose the privilege of common sense,
Trying to convince myself with compliments.
The feeling of disgust sitting rigid in my body.
Degraded by your eyes, your mind and now physically.
Left with the pictures imprinted on my memory,
When you TRIED to steal ownership of the ‘object’ you saw sensory.