by Nick Gisburne
She slices desperation from her skin
But covers to perfection every cut
So secretive no stranger could begin
To know the tides, the torment, in her gut
Narcotics dull the suffering with sleep
Without them, tension tightens at her throat
Depression is a shadow, quick to creep
To pull her deeper, powerless to float
A prison - life, a mockery of chance
A world of endless walls, without a door
But sometimes, in a moment, in a trance
She finds a piece of what she was before
She spins, bewildered, tortured by the traps
And stumbles to the threshold of collapse
