The nausea crept up her throat

From the pit of her stomach;

The realisation that yesterday was real.

And the nausea went to sickness

When the walls began to peel,

Like those ailing, painted boats.

Up came yesterday and last year with it

A mess of promises,

Or maybe hopes glued together.

There was peace in burning

Letting go of her tether,

Emptying the first-aid kit.

And there she lay

Counting her carpet fibres,

And listening to her skin hum.

Arrangement of alarms

Droning until she’s numb,

And can say ‘I’m okay’.