every morning is too early, every ray of sunlight in the room is too bright. you can’t open your eyes all the way, but you’ll just have to work around it if you want to get anything done.

watch something ***** just to feel something, just to force some kind of reaction in a body that has been stuffed and emptied and prodded and picked apart, hands that don’t know what to do with themselves, lips that have spent too much time whispering the wrong secrets into the wrong ears.

you didn’t want to say yes but you didn’t want to say no, either, and now you’re stuck.

every day brings a new coping mechanism, a numbing agent. hours pass and you awaken to see yourself staring at plastic wrappers scattered over the bed, an empty tub of ice cream, a sticky spoon in the sink. go to the bathroom, wash your hands. blink at the mirror. anticipate the shame waiting for you when you drag yourself into bed.

you’re supposed to be on a road going somewhere, you promised you would be. you’ve booked your hotel and all that’s left is for you to put down the mileage. instead, you’re holed up in a ditch on the side, lying flat, hoping none of the passing cars will notice it’s you there, under the tarp, wondering why you’re always so cold. summon the courage to get back on the road, take a few steps, but you know it’ll just send you flying backward again - and for what?

you plan and plan and plan and plan, but it only gets you scraps of some life you never wanted. do your best, patch it into a quilt, but it’s not enough to keep you warm. somehow you know it never will be.