The Valley

By: Allison Hall

My head is ravenous; it needs to feed.
But I have nothing – no clonazepam,
No ambien, no dolls, not even weed.
I’ve done all that my shrink asked: swam,
Walked, ran, and talked. Nothing helps – I still need
A dose of something: or else my diaphragm
Would blow to bits. I hastily search shelves
But find no pills – and deeper his mind delves

Into chaos and derangement and violence.
Afflicted, then, his body would find its way to survive
As a stranded man does through abstinence.
He runs towards the kitchen: what does he wish to contrive?

His hand picks up a knife, turns towards
The other hand, and reaches for the wrist:
And draws a fissure, and waits for the rewards
His body would soon bestow, his mind wouldn’t resist.

My flesh opens up like china rose blooms during springs,
A volcano erupts, and its lava calmness brings.


Allison Hall is an amateur writer based in Michigan. She identifies as neurodivergent and queer. Pursuing a degree in communications, in her free time, she likes to write, dance, and play with her cats.

Categories: Poetry

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