I sit in a bubbling pot of hot water
and I become a fat, languorous frog
boiling away, knowing Death is near. But I welcome that slow demise, as I
float, engulfed in my heated water blanket. Because there’s this knot at the nape of my neck. And it’s full of miseries and doubt and pain when I am anywhere else
I like becoming this frog. I like boiling away and feeling the bubbles release me from this prison of thoughts that I could not escape on my own. I will be this groggy, semi-conscious frog, in this hot pot of water, until
I can no longer take it, or until
life yanks me back to its hard embrace, or
until I die.