lacking concept of time and reality,

the chill of anxiety has never felt more real.

a 368-day blur

laced with reminiscence of happier times

fogs my vision;

autopilot drives me into an emotional telephone pole.

poison does not graze

my stomach nor my lungs,

but instead my heart and head

receive the effects of your words.

you pour them down my throat like nectar, no

what you said choked me like tar, no

it couldn’t have

because not a single sound escaped your lips

that was directed towards me;

but is that not the point?

some say the unspoken conversations

are the ones that tear us to

******, mutilated shreds.

yours only left me

forsaken

writing this mess of a poem;

yet another silent interaction

that will never

cross your mind.