The Epilogue

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Abstract

with the topaz tiles echoing shivers into breasts. Surrounded by pills of all different colours, blue and green, yellow and pink, pure white. My glasses are neatly folded in the corner, where I can stare at myself in them.Stage II Encephalic dreams plague me, foam flowing out my mouth in contracted waves. Blood pouring out my nose, running into the sealant, now pink like a rosè. The record player skips in the other room, repeating the same Christmas song.Stage III A gentle breeze eases through the window, showing me the last remnants of my reality. I wante

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d to die in Paris, with the roses and the balconies. With the cafés and the spirits of Parisian philosophers. Instead, I’m lying face down and covered in cheap coffee.Stage IV A line of crows has formed on the window ledge, watching with their beaks open in awe. The Christmas tree on the sink blinks on and off, red, green, red, green.Stage V A plate of rotting pancakes in the corner, wafting its sweet decay in my direction. The tall street lamp outside dulls the ache, the ache of longing for a release from this tower. This is my epilogue.</article></body>

A poem

Stage I Laying face down on the bathroom floor, with the topaz tiles echoing shivers into breasts. Surrounded by pills of all different colours, blue and green, yellow and pink, pure white. My glasses are neatly folded in the corner, where I can stare at myself in them.

Stage II Encephalic dreams plague me, foam flowing out my mouth in contracted waves. Blood pouring out my nose, running into the sealant, now pink like a rosè. The record player skips in the other room, repeating the same Christmas song.

Stage III A gentle breeze eases through the window, showing me the last remnants of my reality. I wanted to die in Paris, with the roses and the balconies. With the cafés and the spirits of Parisian philosophers. Instead, I’m lying face down and covered in cheap coffee.

Stage IV A line of crows has formed on the window ledge, watching with their beaks open in awe. The Christmas tree on the sink blinks on and off, red, green, red, green.

Stage V A plate of rotting pancakes in the corner, wafting its sweet decay in my direction. The tall street lamp outside dulls the ache, the ache of longing for a release from this tower. This is my epilogue.