The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
It is happening again. The grind-- Each thought is hoisted up by screeching chains and I long for sleep, so that whine would end. Impossible to get out of bed. A weight is pressing down on my chest, clothing me in gray like that lead apron they make you wear at the dentist. A black hole is slowly opening at my center-- such heaviness. I feed and feed it, surround myself with takeout containers, gasoline sheen of oils glistening around my pyre, cat nestled by my thigh as I try and try for a spark. There is a chill in my bones no summer can touch and I must simply wait for days, weeks, or months until it retreats-- I don’t know why but it does. One day this chill may kill me. I slit my wrists and downed a bottle of pills once Woke up in the morning as if nothing had happened, told no one. Tomorrow, when I say I am feeling better I’ll mean I am weary from trying to get warm. Sophia Carroll (she/they) studied chemistry at Smith College and biology at Brown University. Her writing is published or forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, Rust & Moth, and Neologism Poetry Journal, as well as on her Substack, Torpor Chamber. She is currently working on her second novel. Find her on Twitter @torpor_chamber. Comments are closed.
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February 2025
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