Firstly, I am sick of keys quivering in locks,
of shadows, of darkness
of daylight when it fades
and all the time in between.

I am sick of catching my reflection and looking beyond,
loud noises and parked cars
with blacked out windows. I am sick of side streets,
main streets, faces that change with time,

corners of rooms and footsteps.
I am sick of creaking floorboards and I am sick of new ones.
I am sick of being sick.
I am tired.

I am sick of restlessness and sleepless nights,
and I am sick of the dreams that I have when there are none. I wish the rain could drown the feel of those hours,
dampen the paranoia and drift me home. I am sick of the tide that submerges me,
Of dull mornings and helpless phone calls to friends that know not.

But mostly, I am sick of you. Wherever you may reside now,
I wonder if you are sick of the marks left by handcuffs,
The screens that obscured my testament in court
and the hours of waiting to know your fate.

While you have a world ahead of you,
I am trapped in mine, unable to escape the same feelings of dread that only a nightcap can mask.
As long as the strokes of the clock drag me forwards,
my heart will hammer indecipherable patterns,

Going nowhere, but remembering your hands on my flesh. I am sick of blaming you, and blaming me,
and I am sick of not knowing which is right. You have become a phantom, a poltergeist that throws sorrow around my head,
a monster that flourishes in the dead of night. I am sick of being sick
And I am sick to death, that you are not.