The Prize

when the price becomes too high

the knife edge seems sharper

the blade cuts deeper, each wound

bleeds brighter, longer

the noose tightens, suffocates

the world turns a nauseous

shade of blue, each breath stabs

even as it grasps

the lifeline dangles just out of reach,

held aloft by your raw and bitter

laughter, your foot on my throat

stamps and

blackness takes hold,

your apologies with your tears

fall like blood drops

to a sanitised floor

I watch through swollen eyes

as you are led away

between two policewomen

with well-practised ennui

a nurse fiddles with a drip

pats my hand in sympathy

tells me you will cause

no more trouble

but I know better

you will chase me down

the prize is not in the having

but in never letting go.

Niamh