Photograph

Im sick
I close my eyes, dark curls hang loosly round my cheeks,
the sky is merely a grey blanket covering a darkening sky
not a noise, not a bird, not a child, nothing but silence
perfect silence, a perfect grey momment

Im sick
I stare at the cause of my misery
a torn photograph, only a few months old, but man-handled
its contents beckoning me, taunting me, I run my nails over the coating
then pick the black from under them

Im sick
the face scratched through, I dream it was real
I drink. Cool, clear liquid. My polish friends would be proud
I want it all to end, I can only think of one way how
One dark way how, one final way how