They Feed On My Stories

I see them holding my fingers,

But I cannot feel their warm touch on my skin.

The numbness flows through me like a river,

Pushing me down like a pin.

I know I must go on without feeling.

This is the path I must follow ‘til the end.

Severed heads float through the air screaming,

But there is no time to bend.

I rush towards the neon door,

Searching for a single sign that could stop me.

The eerie emptiness speeds up time,

And every new exit is just a copy.

I trip on the wires and cables,

Falling down the hole that they’ve dug so neatly,

And they rip my stories from my shaking hands.

I really hope death beats me.

-Jackie