You don't want to wake up
anymore

okay, that's fine

stay in bed and watch
the clock knock space
upside it's head, like it's
a cosmic episode of
the Three Stooges

let the doors close
themselves, and lock
whatever is left
of eternity
outside

You hear someone
speak, and it makes
a little sense,

something like,
he's still in there,
should we wake him?

The eyes roll
back into their
respectable sockets,

the mouth locks
back into it's rightful
hinges

Functioning
never felt so
good, especially
under the weight
of mortality

Your hand revolts
against your mind's
fiendish desires
and coils around
the doorknob

like a thirsty desert
snake

It turns the ****,

it resembles
pouring frosting
all over a bland
bundt cake

It tastes good,

the bed no longer clings
to your body, but still
carries your sweat stains

just in case you ever
want to go back to that
sick, sad,

escape

One day
You will wake up and the sun will
look exactly the same,
the clutter downstairs
will sound like every other morning.
Your back will ache
in the same place,
the dishes will lie comfortably
on your desk,
dust will continue to collect
around the books you touch
mid thought.
But your father will leave
and it will feel absent, not dutiful,
your mother will smile
and it will be empty and served with
cereal,
you'll find your dog lying cold and stiff in the laundry.
You'll know, undoubtedly,
though it will take years to settle like rocks
in your stomach.
You'll know
that for every other moment following this, until you die,
it will be a raw knife edge you tread,
between Awake
and Asleep.

Thinking at the speed of light must be like –
Touching a popsicle under typhoid’s fever.
Could it be the scent of sorrow for someone else?
An error buried but burrowed? Borrowed?
I’d imagine, “it,” a bird at my sill
And resulting boot through the air;
Broken before(s), bludgeoned becomes,
So cracks the smile, so cracks the mirror,
So breaks and so becomes,
The speed of light.

nothing is safe from these hands

how many know i used to write
in lowercase when
the senses died in my fingertips
do you remember
a time when i thought that it was better
you hated me than loved me
because i didn't have to fight it?
tired
has always been code for depressed
stressed has always been code for
undressed in front of the mirror shaking at the knees
because i don't like what i see.
i have been in denial
as to whether i am fine
for a few weeks because i don't have the option
of weakness right now

why
how
why
how

i don't know
who i am and i'm sorry
that you don't either and it confuses you.