The Nero Effect

The light bulb blinks at me, like its own brightness makes it squint
And wink like I used to when I looked into the sun.
The white tiles gleam under the harsh light and I see the lint,
Cast off by overzealous towel drying, and the soap scum
Running around the edge of the bath that I lie in,
The water is lukewarm and getting redder by the minute,
And I lie here looking around the room. I begin
To count the tiles that line the bathtub as I’m in it,
Getting to nineteen before an itch on my wrist makes
Me lose count. I ignore it (the other one is itching too)
And start again. Thirteen, this time, before the shakes
Set in. Twenty seven then, before the pain accrues.
I count again, but the faint flicker of the light catches
The tiles on the side and they seem to be blurring
Like the rest of the room. The chill of the water attaches
Itself to my skin, and the room starts twirling.

I close my eyes for a few moments, or minutes, or hours
And begin to fade away. But I have counting to do, so
I open them again (or I think I do) and with all my powers
Of concentration start the count from scratch, but slow,
So much slower now, each hospital-white square the same
As the last and these wrists again and each tile is duller than
The ones surrounding it. It’s back! That distracter Pain
Which lassoes the humming spotlight back on where it began
With the glint of the steel razor that I placed on the rim.
The water is getting colder. I can’t see my body anymore.
One last time I think I will finish the count; One. Two. Three I begin
But I lose once again (it’s a habit of mine). I’ll start from Four.
I hear the strains of violin concertos that seem to crescendo and wane
Before screeching into blackness and darkness throughout,
Yet the room begins burning with iridescent black flame
And the counting has counted me out.