there’s a strangeness

to these days that i

can’t quite put a finger on

the persistent tapping

in the back of my mind

that once acknowledged

reverberates throughout

freezing limbs, heart

palpitations, blurred vision

and dry mouth, a coming

something uncomfortable

from the edges, foreign

this desire to wrap

hands around the throat

of these days, to feel

the cartilage give way

beneath quaking thumbs

thick fingers digging

into the throat, tearing

away the muscle and tendon

and to look into the eyes

of these days, and watch

the life drain, in suffering

and regret, crying out

for mercy and forgiveness

preying on my empathy

as that too, puddles around

my feet, crimson and black

in its unforgiving release

there’s no mercy left in me

for these days, only rage

the opening of a door

that i fear can never

be closed again