My feet rest here with
The right
Curled
Around the back of the left.

It's here that I address

Myself.

Here, I observe
The slow wake of time
Revealing itself like glistening oil,

Dark shades of blue,

Streaks of white
From a light

I cannot see.

A notice tells me
On my phone
There has been an explosion.

I feel nothing.

I'm not sad.
I'm not worried.
I'm not scared.
I'm not angry.

My expectations are met.

I just sit
With my feet crossed,
The right behind the left,

Numb.

How have I come to be
This person?

This being unable
To even feel sympathy?

Can one see and hear so much
That the only option to survive
Is to transform into something
One won't even recognize?

I sit with my coffee, light cream.
I drink it and
Feel nothing.

My eyes do not water.
My skin does not crawl.
My heart does not ache.

I feel the wind on my face
From the fog rolling in from the West and
I feel nothing.

Can it be
That I a
Am slain?

And though
The sirens burn my ears
And the smoke
Chokes my lungs
And the bullets
Pierce my skin
And the hate
Makes me question
Everything everything everything,

I feel nothing.

It's here that I sit.
It's here that I address myself,
Feet crossed,
My back slightly bent crooked,
The blinds drawn with
The wind rocking the side door open and close,

Watching the world

Eat and

Eat and

Eat itself.

And with all of the hospital beds full
And the graveyards in rubble
And the ambulances out of gas
And the sky too blackened to even see the sun

I want to feel something
Other than

Nothing.