I was wearing a black haltered top with straps tightly wrapped around my neck. Black is the color of death, so others say. I had no idea when I woke up that morning. The sun was out, the sky, clear blue. Lou Reed pulled me out of the checkered bed sheets so I thought it was going to be another perfect day. I just grabbed the shirt not knowing it was a portent of things to come.
But the waves moved so fast, faster than my ability to run. They just came and their sound was deafening, louder than the dirty crickets buzzing in my head. Their crests were as high as mountains and the anger, larger than life.
The only solace is this piece of laboratory equipment that is shaped like a bell. I can fit inside but I can barely breathe. It's been a while since I was here and I didn't think I had to go back.
I am gasping for air, my drunken head spinning again and again.
But from now on, wherever I am, be it in mine or in somebody else's car, in his or in somebody else's arms, in her or in somebody's else's embrace, in my room or in another's, I am in the same glass bell jar, alone with my dreams and nightmares.
Nobody can get me out of here anymore. Not this time.
*apologies to Sylvia Plath, author, The Bell Jar