End Game

17 noviembre, 2021

«As a child you
liked to play
spinning tops,
dear»,
said mum.

Not so long after
being a child,
«I’d rather
trade the spin
for drugs»,
she thought.

The top that spins
is like Coke,
nobody sees it
though there it is,
spinning.

The sequence of
the circumference that follows
are sleepless days,
sleepless nights,
like a clock that
spins and spins
non stop.

Not that anybody sees it,
again,
it’s still there.
Not that a single body
either sees
the denial
when I refuse to
take my meds.
Only I can tell,
well,
I’m the owner
of this game.

What can be told then?
My jittery attitude
is giving me a
bad name.
My bourgundy-coloured
nails,
dry fast,
fade fast.
The flat tire
on the left back
of mum’s car,
keeps crashing
every time.

Came home
high and went
by my old room,
saw the old
rusty,
spinning top.
Placed it in order
for the next time
I spin-out.

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