Hole

This poem is about health decline and feeling helpless to it.

Sinking in the hole,
I didn't know I dug.
I’m sitting on knees,
Bitten and coated in bugs.
They’re up to my throat,
my clothes are full of mud.

I’m bleeding.

I’m bleeding.

When did the wound open?

I’m sinking.

I’m sinking.
My lymph nodes are swollen.

Rain dampens out my screams
They couldn't hear them anyway.
Pain and panic blend
teaming up to block my airways.

The scrawny purple fingers
of my once clean hand
are pressed against the wet soil
trying to help me stand

What's my escape plan?

How do I heal?

When I can't feel
the bottom of the hole?

The griminess is so cold.