Depressilepsy

The horror

Of the auras

Is a warning

I make the mistake of ignoring;

 

Before the explosion of the ictus

the snap-crack-shatter

Of something important inside;

 

Sentiment is just air resistance

Weak against the determined jerking

Of my uncontrollable limbs-

 

In what is with all due respect

An electrical shitstorm

In my soul.

 

It’s tonic-clonic misery.

Worsened

By an all-consuming will to die.

 

After, just barely after,

With the subconscious stertor

Of my rasping thoughts-

 

I swoon,

Thoroughly unwell

Into the breaking eggshells

Of hypertense, postictal hell.

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