Gordian Knot

The cavity between my ribs is a tangled mess,

a Gordian knot that can only be undone

with the brute force of great change.

I have slipped between two daunting cliffs,

my peripheral options removed due to criminal neglect. 

I played chicken with the universe,

and ran head on into a telephone pole.

I am a broken beast,

a habit without a proper noun. 

I have been crossing a river on a bridge of shuddering stones.

My concentration slipped,

and I have been swept downriver,

the impetus of idiocy forcing water into

hyperventilating lungs.

This is a mistake that will alter the course of my journey

to a significant degree.

I have been washed sideways,

and my only option is to travel downstream

and attempt to keep afloat.

That, or slip beneath the deepening current,

the muddy eddies that darken as the horizon swallows the sun.

An option not gone unconsidered.

Simpler to grab a kitchen knife,

and open my wrists before the day begins.

Simpler to avoid the habit, and its consequences, by diving into the abyss,

by drip drying the evidence into the un-mowed front lawn,

painting it crimson --

for I have not the strength to cut this knot.