A Slow and Bitter Leak

You’ve been spilling for some time now.

Not all at once—no grand, tragic flood.

Just a slow and bitter leak,

seeping from places you stopped checking.

It pools in your footsteps,

sinks into the floorboards,

stains the things you touch.

But no one notices, do they?

You press your hand to the wound,

press harder, harder, until the skin blanches—

but it doesn’t stop.

It only seeps through your fingers,

like it’s trying to escape you too.

It should hurt more than it does.

Shouldn’t it?

You tell yourself it’s fine,

that there’s plenty left inside you,

that a body can’t miss

what it doesn’t remember losing.

But you feel it now, don’t you?

The lightness.

The cold.

The way the world tilts, just slightly.

It won’t be long now.