Like i’m here, but i’m not.
like someone cares.
but they don’t.
like i belong somewhere
else, anywhere but here,
and escape lies just past
that snowy window,
cool and crisp as the February
air. i consider the streets
beyond, bleak as the bleached
bones of wilderness
scaffolding my heart.
just a stone’s throw away.

but she’s out there,
stalking me, hunting me.
i know she can’t get me
in here. besides, i’m too
tired to pick myself up
and make a break for it.
so i just sit here, brain
wobbling. tripping.
tripping on prozac.