Head Clot

by Monim Wains


Seeping out the hole in his heart,

Black blood, clinging to the ribs in his core,

Pulling him to the floor,

Pulling the light in his eyes away.


At times he would hide it,

Dam the lump in his throat with his teeth,

Eyes grinning cheek to cheek,

Happy as could be.


On days it would even leave him,

A little sigh that let him live,

Let him smile truly for once.


But in the dead of night it returned,

Behind closed doors, sinking him,

His life anchored to the floor,

He heaved for every breath

Against the clot that pulled him tight.


It flooded his head in the dark,

Oozed into his skull,

Awake, dull, still,

Accepting this ghoul that shadowed him,

Thick, heavy, black

Quicksand dragged on his thoughts.


He gave in to his bed,

His eyelids drooped,

Breathed out, slept,

A drawn-out sigh left his chest,

Made him lead,

Waiting to wake again, sinking.


He pushed for every blink,

Hauled himself up,

But his head still hung,

Swimming through mud for every step,

He lay back, unable, inable,

To move, to love, to be.


Wishing it away,

Willing himself free from these shackles,

But the blood sapped his will, his strength,

Left a laden corpse.


He knew his heart could heal,

Hoped that one day light would pierce

his eyes again,

Reclaim his smothered soul,

But he left it to fortune,

To luck, to pull him out of this well.


Those who knew him would cry,

Reach out and help,

But he was tired, too tired to call for help,

A sad mist fogged the love he was shown.


Alone, curled up, he bled,

It’s okay, it’ll get better

He told himself,

And left his fate to fortune.

The Poor Print

Established in 2013, The Poor Print is the student-run newspaper of Oriel College, Oxford. Written by members of the JCR, MCR, SCR and staff, new issues are published fortnightly during term. Our current Executive Editors are Siddiq Islam and Jerric Chong.

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