poetry · prose


Tuesday, April 16, 2019. Daily Brit Wit.


Adjective, British informal 

Extremely drunk.

“You are the personification of my anxiety attacks
constricting my heart inside a too tight cage
pressure exerting
invisible forces which hold up the galaxy
presses down on my heart
and maybe I’ll balloon up with lightheadedness
or perhaps my eyes will explode like supernovae
dancing among stars for a moment’s breath
stale with sleep and lips bleeding
shards of glass painted on like lipgloss
and waves of dizziness crash upon me
as if I am bladdered
but I have nothing to celebrate
no need to succumb bottles and their bottoms
not even to forget you.
I thought I was strong
and moved on with an incoming tide
floating along
but the scenery stopped being brilliantly bright
dull and subdued
and my emotions felt forced, faked–
am I a fraud?
All that lingers is ambiguous anxiety and dank depression
carving out my belly until it’s hollowed out
now full of noxious air and fraudulent emotions
bricks forcing me down
while my heart stutters erratically
buzzing out my fretful eyes.
You are my pain
and I cannot change it.”


© The Loyal Brit Wit, 2019


4 thoughts on “Bladdered

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