There is a space the length
of a small child's pinky;
a space that is harder to cross
than the harshest of rapids,
or the coldest of winters.

Unless you have needed to cross it,
unless you have tried to squeeze
the two sides together like 
a pair of two clashing magnets, 
it does not exist.

This space is the purgatory of being;
where you are stuck between
what you want,
and what your mind, your body,
allows you to do.

This space is the inch of room
between a guillotines blade and the 
wisps of hair on your head. 
One side a release, and one
a reminder of what is normal,
what is expected.

For this space is only rented to
the melancholic;
to those who have felt 
the cold and nimble hands of apathy,
the wry smile of despair.

Those hands and smiles
lead you to the gallows; 
to the inch of death rope,
the space of an empty pill bottle,
or to the space between your skin
and the green veins 
you wish so desperately to slit.