I Crave Apathy

I feel tender and raw

like the patch of skin I

ritually pick at

every morning,

a red and swollen circle

I barely notice anymore.

It's tucked away from the mirror

but my fingers find it

with practiced ease,

and as the sun rises

I bleed out the nightmares from hours earlier.

I did laundry last night.

The warm smell of clean sheets makes me sad.

I can't explain it

but I bury my nose in my pillow

and fold myself under the sheets

and the cotton on my skin

feels thick and tough.

Another injection is due this week.

I find relief in the fact

because my skin feels empty,

and walking around sore

and leaking oil from my thigh

is better than nothing.

I made a list of pros and cons

in my mind on the bus this morning,

but the pros fell short

and I fell out of love

with the rain's tinny sounds on the metal above my head.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I don't try to stop it anymore.

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