By Navnoor Sandhu
I feel it, before I know it—a pressure,
Not a headache, nor throb, deeper-
A silent ache, sinking, deeper-
Crushing my skull from within, invasive.
I scratch—just a graze—yet it grows,
Fingers search, slipping through soft skin,
Nails drag through the mind,
Colliding memories, caressing me.
I can’t stop, they dive deeper,
Hungry, primal—ecstasy hits.
There it is, the spot of madness,
Crimson claws carve and strip, ravaging.
The relief—where is it?
It spreads, the itch divine,
Layers peel back, my life uncoiled,
Merciless plunging to mass below.
Pain lingering, lodged in fibres,
Grey matter crumbles, memories fall,
Lost soldiers of a greater calling—
Still, not enough.
Erratic.
Gnawing.
The edge of thought,
Concepts fragile, words escape,
I, stable, sand in the storm,
Once whole, or maybe never.
I am.
I can’t think.
I was.
One last tug—it’s gone, the ache,
The madness.
I’m empty—
And it’s exquisite.